Aevus Obio
by MsAnnaGraham
Summary: Sirius is gone and Harry is miserable. After deciding to take matters into his own hands, Harry sneaks into Knockturn Alley, meets a strange man selling magical objects, and manages to travel back in time. ...A little too far back...
1. Chapter 1

_*Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a fanfiction, and I am in no way profiting from it.*_

_Unless you count personal entertainment. Then you can cuff me here 'n now._

Harry lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. When he was younger, he would lay there for ages, making pictures out of the swirling paint like children often do with clouds. Now, however, he didn't even see the mounted collection of light bulbs that were dimly outlined through the creamy whiteness of a round, glass bowl. If he were looking properly, he would have seen the shadows of multiple dead flies cradled in the light's basin, as Aunt Petunia rarely came in to clean any more.

This fact was made even more obvious by the clothes, newspapers, and broken quills scattered around the floor. Harry hardly bothered to even unpack when he got home, so he had been basically living out of his trunk ever since. He was on his fourth set of clothes, which would only make sense to a teenage boy, as he had been at number 4, Privet Drive for nearly two weeks.

He ran a hand through greasy, unkempt hair and curled onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory that had haunted him for weeks_. Sirius, mocking Bellatrix, his face lighting up with every flash of a wand in the room around him… Bellatrix, her face twisting with fury, whipping her wand around with practiced dexterity… a blaze of light…Sirius…falling… _

Growling, Harry rubbed hard at his face, hardly noticing the tears he smeared away. He was going mad here, shut in this dark, miserable room, met only with disdain whenever he left. He doubted the Dursleys had even noticed a difference in his behavior—all they cared about was that he was out of their way.

If only Sirius' name had been cleared in his third year. He would have been able to live with Sirius for years. His Godfather wouldn't have been so eager to leave the protection of his prison. He wouldn't have…

_Merlin,_ if only… if only he could go back in time.

Harry sat up slightly, leaning his head against the headboard. The wood dug into the back of his skull, but he hardly noticed. He was a wizard, wasn't he? Why _couldn't_ he go back in time? He had done it before, after all, when Sirius had needed saving the first time.

Why couldn't he save Sirius' life now?

Swinging his legs off the bed, Harry began stuffing things into his pack. His invisibility cloak, the last bit of money he had left over from last year, and his Gringotts key, were all crammed inside. He pulled on a cloak and his wand was stuck hurriedly into his pocket. Then, with hardly a hesitation, he swung the pack over his shoulder and left.

Sneaking out of the house was hardly an issue. He had done it so many times that he avoided the creaky steps instinctively and shut the front door with nary a click. Once he was on the curb, he held out his right hand.

It was a warm night—Harry hadn't a clue what time it was. Perhaps two in the morning. The air had lost that stuffy, overly hot smell that summer so often brought along, now replaced with a refreshing scent of newness. Promise, even.

Harry's arm started to get tired, and he was beginning to feel rather silly. Just as he was about to put his hand down, however, the Knight Bus screeched around a corner, huffing to a stop just in front. Harry leapt back a pace, sure that if he had been a few inches closer, the bus would have taken off his nose.

The ride was much less interesting than his last, though perhaps it was only because he wasn't exactly paying attention. Even Stan Shunpike, the conductor, seemed to be less chatty. Harry glanced over at the pimply young man to see him leaning up against a wall, his eyes screwed shut and a light snoring emanating from his lolling mouth. What may have been the shadow of a smile tickled Harry's lips, but only for a moment.

The Leaky Cauldron was almost empty, as could be expected for that time of the night. A scraggly-haired witch and what looked like a hag sat in a shadowy corner, muttering to each other. Harry avoided looking at them and strode past, pulling nervously at his fringe, thinking maybe he should have worn a disguise.

Once he was inside Diagon Alley, Harry reached into his pack and pulled on the invisibility cloak. Now it was time to get down to business.

Knockturn Alley wasn't difficult to find. The alleys were slightly dingier, the signs slightly more crooked, and the shadows slightly creepier. There was a close call with a particularly fat wizard, causing Harry to squeeze into a dusty corner in order to evade detection, but otherwise, the trip went rather smoothly.

Patting spider webs off his dad's cloak, Harry searched the signs for something promising. If anyone could see his face, they would have given a wide berth to the boy with a somewhat mad expression. Or rather, offered him a job, since this was indeed Knockturn Alley.

Harry stopped in front of a shop with Morbur's Magical Mysteries lettered across the front window. This seemed as good a place to start as any. He stuffed the invisibility cloak in his pack and pulled up his hood before entering.

Candles lit along the wall, sensing his presence. The little shop was crowded with shelves, glass cases, and dusty furniture, leaving a thin, precarious, maze-like path in which to walk. Harry browsed slowly, inspecting the objects closely. A few were labeled with a dark green ink, in a hand that Harry could barely make out.

He was squinting at the tiny paper atop a pair of dingy trainers when someone spoke behind him.

"Find what you're looking for?"

Harry nearly leapt out of his shoes. He spun around to see a tall, beanpole of a man wearing a long, oddly colorful scarf. It wound around his neck multiple times then trailed behind him on the floor. His hair was a nest of grey and dusty brown, and he wore a pair of tiny spectacles on the tip of his curvy nose. The man looked at Harry expectantly, eyebrows raised.

"Er—No, actually." Harry tried to lower his voice in an effort to sound older. "Do you happen to have—well, what I mean is… I need—"

"Enough!" The man said in an exasperated voice, holding up a hand. "I can see that you dun quite belong here, do ya?"

Harry's shoulders slumped. He was a fool to come here. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'll just…" He turned.

A hand fell on his shoulder, spinning him back to face the man. Harry gripped his wand tightly. "That dun mean you have to leave, boy." The man scowled. "I simply can't stand to be lied to." He looked Harry up and down. "Relax. I'm not going to hex ya." He grumbled under his breath. "Kids." Then, with a wave, "Follow me."

Harry hesitated, watching the man's scarf drag on the carpet behind him. He was finally beginning to think this through, and he didn't like where this was going. _Constant vigilance_, as Moody always said. Then Sirius' face returned to his thoughts, and Harry clenched his jaw. He had come this far, after all. He had to see this through, or else he would spend all his time wondering.

Striding quickly to catch up, Harry followed the man. Then he realized the man had been chatting to him casually the whole time.

"—not that I care. I only took this place because it was dirt cheap. Granted, you dun get kittens and fluffy unicorns prancing through the door, but I pride m'self in helping every customer. Ah! There you are, boy. I was beginning to think you left me talking to m'self." A crooked smile flashed on his face before disappearing. Harry found he preferred it when the man didn't smile. "Now tell me." He collapsed into a worn armchair and reached for a mug on the end table to his right. "What can I get ya?"

He eyed the man for a moment. "I want to go back in time." Harry's voice was flat. "Do you have something that can do that?"

The man took a long draft from the mug, then set it down with a clank, sucking at his teeth. "Ahh. Time, is it?" He looked at Harry sideways a moment. "Time's a funny thing. S'not in a line, like lots of other people seem to think. Think of it as more of a ball of twine. It's always criss-crossin and getting into knots. And every now and then, when two points are destined to touch… well that's when the magic happens."

Harry waited. "So… you'll help me?" he said uncertainly.

"Course I will!" The man snapped, leaning forward. "Toldja I help everyone, didn't I? I'm just sayin that things might not end up like you expect, that's all." He pulled himself to his feet. "Wait here." With that, he disappeared into the teetering stacks of mysterious objects.

Harry shifted his feet awkwardly, looking around. He was beginning to lose his drive again. After all, what if something went horribly wrong? Could he really trust this strange man in Knockturn Alley?

He rustled around in his pack, checking how much money he had. The total came up to ten galleons, five sickles, and seven knuts. Panic tied a knot in his stomach. Was that enough for a rare object like this? What would the man do if he found out Harry didn't have enough?

Gripping his wand with a sweaty hand, Harry peered around. Which way was the exit again? Maybe it would be best to leave now before things got complicated.

"Got it!"

Harry jumped again, this time yanking out his wand. The man froze, his eyes narrowing. "You going to attack me, boy?" The wand was quickly shoved back in his pocket. "Thought naught. I got what you're looking for. Isn't she a beauty?" Between his fingers he held an intricate, deep blue box about the size of a walnut.

At Harry's silence, the wizard kept talking, his voice almost reverent. "It's called an Aevus Obio. Got it off an old man years back. Said to be careful who I sold it to." The man looked Harry in the eye, a look of intense curiosity on his face. "I'm not the type to try things out for m'self. I just sell the things, see. But I admit, something this gorgeous… it's been tempting me for years. Had to hide it in the back just so I wouldn't see it every day." The man chuckled fondly under his breath. "Take a look." He held it out to Harry, who took it with careful fingers.

It was heavier than it looked, made of something like wood and etched with strange symbols. It didn't seem to open in any way, although Harry thought he felt something shift inside when he moved it.

"How does it work?" Harry ran his fingers cautiously over the surface.

The man shrugged. "How should I know? He never explained, did he? Only said that the right person would figure it out." He looked at Harry closely. "You interested?"

Harry swallowed thickly. _Here we go…_ "How much?" Doubts flew through his mind, but he somehow kept his voice level.

The reply came with glittering eyes. "How much you offering?"

"Ten galleons?" Harry winced inwardly.

"Is that a question or an offer?" The wizard growled.

"T-ten galleons." He tried to sound confident.

The wizard stood back and looked Harry up and down. "Tell you what. I'll give it to ya for ten galleons, sure. But only if you throw in a lock of hair."

Harry blinked. "A… lock of hair?"

"Well," said the man, grinning, "It's not every day you get the great Harry Potter in your shop, is it?"


	2. Chapter 2

_*Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a fanfiction, and I am in no way profiting from it.*_

Harry barely remembered to pull on his invisibility cloak before heading out the door. As he left behind the dank darkness of Knockturn Alley, he was surprised to see that the sun was peeking out and a smattering of people were already hurrying along between the shops.

For the first time in weeks, his stomach growled. Lately, eating had only been a hassle, shoving food down his throat to coincide with the lump of lead in his gut. Now, however, hunger came with a vengeance, gnawing at his stomach lining. With a shrug, he headed to Gringotts to get money for some breakfast and a fare home.

After shoveling down a delicious meal of sausage, kippers, and scrambled eggs in the Leaky Cauldron, Harry wasn't quite ready to return to Privet Drive just yet. He knew it was foolish of him to stick around, but he shoved that knowledge to the back of his mind in favor of the strange giddiness his freedom allowed. He was away from the Dursleys, he was free to do whatever he wanted, and he was going to save Sirius.

He pushed away his plate—licked clean—and took the little blue box from his pocket, turning it around in his fingers. The man had said the right person would figure out how it worked.

Hermione's voice echoed in his mind. _"Of course he said that, Harry!" _He imagined her shaking her head with exasperation. _He wanted your money, didn't he? I can't believe you let him trick you out of ten galleons!_

Harry gave his head a shake. He couldn't allow such thoughts. After all, Hermione would have been against this whole outing to begin with. Rash, she would call it. No, he had to figure this out. He had to do it for Sirius. Harry stood up, strode up to the counter where Tom was washing dishes, and rented a room upstairs.

After the hunchbacked wizard showed him to his room, Harry locked the door, flung himself on the bed, and inspected the tiny box. He prodded it with his wand, muttering random phrases. He shook it. He squeezed it. He even licked it. At one point, he threw it hard against the wall in frustration. It only bounced off with a strangely loud thud and tumbled to the floor.

An hour passed, leaving Harry splayed out on the covers, the box balanced on his forehead. Despite the fact it had been sitting there for a while, it was refreshingly cool on his skin. Hopelessness began to seep in once more. He was a teenage boy of average intelligence and average skill. How was he supposed to figure out what a full-grown wizard hadn't been able to?

Harry closed his eyes, wondering if anyone had noticed he wasn't with the Dursleys. He was definitely going to be told off for wandering off like this. Perhaps if he left now, he'd get there before anyone even realized he was gone.

As he mused, his breathing became slower and his thoughts became muddier. It was so very comfortable here on the bed. The covers were fluffy and soft—much more so than the ones he used at home. Birds sang in the distance. It wasn't as if the Dursleys would notice he was gone. The room was small, but the exact right temperature. The light brown carpet and gently off-white walls were quite relaxing. The candles on the walls dimmed slightly. Maybe he would stay for just a few more minutes.

* * *

Rapid knocking on the door jerked Harry awake. He sat up quickly, the tiny box flying from his head, into the darkness.

Darkness? How long had he been asleep? Harry scrubbed his face with his palms in an effort to wake up. His mind felt slow and murky. Climbing out of bed, Harry squinted at the floor, searching for the Aevus Obio. He couldn't lose it now! It was his only hope to—Harry ran into a wall.

"What in the name of Merlin's saggy left—!" Harry held a hand to his aching forehead. The room wasn't _that_ small.

Knocks echoed on his door again, followed by a shrill voice. "Get up, boy! Get your lazy behind out of bed and started on your chores! I want the flowerbeds weeded before lunchtime!"

Harry's mouth fell open slightly. He finally recognized the dusty smell that had been tickling his nose. He was back at Privet Drive, in his cupboard. Harry went to search his pockets for his wand, only to find he was wearing pajamas. Trying to calm his frantic breathing, Harry flipped on the light and finally noticed the tiny blue box on the floor beside his bare foot. He picked it up, cradling it in his hand. It seemed bigger than before, yet somehow lighter.

Had he come back to Privet Drive and then been locked in his cupboard as punishment for sneaking out? Harry shook his head. The Dursleys didn't care anymore. In fact, they would have asked if he could stay out longer. He ran a hand through his hair.

He jumped at a third knock at the door, more of a banging, really. "I will not say it again! Get out here and get to work, or there will be no food for you! You need to earn your keep, you ungrateful little…" Aunt Petunia's voice continued on like that for some time. Taking deep breaths, Harry decided he'd better do as she asked. He opened the door, blinking in the bright light.

His aunt's hair was much browner somehow—perhaps it was the lighting. She wore a neat dress and an apron with a couple cleaning supplies stashed in the pockets. Her face was smoother, but that didn't lessen the scowl she wore when looking down at Harry.

"There you are! _Why_ are you not dressed yet? Do I have to do everything for you?" Petunia shoved Harry out of the way, reached into his dressers, and began throwing clothes at him. He leaned against the wall, hugging them to his chest and blinking dumbly. "Dudley is hardly older than you at all, yet he's managed to tie his shoes already. And look at you, still needing someone to get you dressed." She knocked the clothes out of his arms and proceeded to yank his shirt off. She then forced another shirt over his head, stinging his ears. Pulling his arms out through the arm-holes harshly, she continued nagging. "You spend all week coloring pictures and playing at school. You'd think you would have the energy to do a few chores for me on Saturdays."

By the time she was done, Harry was dressed, sore, and still completely shell-shocked. "Well, don't just stand there!" She pushed him toward the front door. "Go earn your keep!" Then she walked away, muttering angrily.

Harry stumbled outside, the tiny box digging into the palm of his hand as he squeezed. He looked down at his feet to see ratty, child-sized trainers, held together with Velcro. Harry remembered these shoes. Dudley had outgrown them long before they even fit Harry properly, yet his aunt and uncle had forced him to wear them for years. He tripped everywhere all through kindergarten. Of course, Dudley was always happy to help that along.

He wandered toward the storage shed, his mind racing. The box had taken him back in time, alright. But this was wrong! He was only supposed to go back a couple months, not a decade! Once he managed to pull the heavy shed door open, he sat in the corner, curled in a ball, and hid his face in his arms. It was cooler inside and smelled of trimmed grass, soil, and wood.

After several minutes spent like that, he leaned his chin up on his knees. Well, if he was a child again, he might as well make good use of his knowledge. He could still save Sirius. In fact—his heart raced at the thought—he could even save him from Azkaban years early! Maybe the Aevus Obio hadn't made such a big mistake after all.

Pulling himself up off the floor, Harry looked round for the gardening supplies. Before anything else, he had to get Aunt Petunia off his back.

* * *

Hours later, Harry dragged himself inside. He had never realized just how different his teenage body had been compared to his body as a child. Everything was more difficult. The shovels were too big in his hands, the weeds impossibly stubborn, and even the sun seemed hotter than ever. His stomach was so very empty. He held a hand to it as it complained.

He kicked off his shoes before coming inside—a habit he was very glad he remembered—and teetered uncertainly toward the kitchen. Uncle Vernon sat in the living room, watching the television as Petunia cleaned around him. Harry was certain Dudley was out playing with his brutish friends.

Reaching the refrigerator, Harry pulled it open to gather ingredients for a sandwich. Petunia couldn't get upset at him for that. He made and finished his meal quickly, cleaning up afterward until everything was just as spotless as he found it. Then, with an eye on his aunt and uncle, swiped a piece of paper and a pen from the writing desk and hurried into the safety of his cupboard.

He had plans to make.


	3. Chapter 3

_*Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a fanfiction, and I am in no way profiting from it.*_

_Sorry for the wait, everyone! This chapter is posted with a special thanks to my brilliant Beta, **Spark Writer**! _

* * *

Harry hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs in a painful gust. He grunted, holding his stomach. Through watering eyes, he saw Dudley and his friends form a circle around him, laughing.

"Aw, is baby Harry going to cry?" The boy to Dudley's right jeered. The others cackled along.

Dudley poked him hard in the side with a foot. "Go on, _Potty_. Cry." The boys sniggered at the word. Dudley puffed out his chest and smirked.

"Cry for your mummy, Potty." Another boy held a foot to Harry's legs and pushed.

"Nah, his mummy's dead," Dudley said casually. His childish face was pink with pleasure, his normally flat blonde hair messed a bit from the lunch break. "Who're you going to cry for now, _Potty_? You haven't got anybody!" His last word was punctuated with a hard kick in the ribs. Harry cringed, nearly crying out in pain.

He hadn't expected this. He had planned to make friends with Dudley somehow. He needed an ally at Privet Drive badly, and Dudley was young—Harry thought he could change him. Now, though, bruised and grass-stained, Harry realized he was wrong. And he was being punished for it.

The bell rang and children began running toward the school house. With one last kick at Harry, Dudley turned and headed back, his friends following his lead. They were in their third year of grade school now. It had been three years since Harry had traveled back in time into his younger body. Three years…

Harry coughed, propping himself up on his elbows. He had to get inside quickly, or else he'd get in trouble for being late. Limping, he hurried to the door, stopping only for a moment to brush off his clothing and do his best to flatten his mop of black hair. It was slightly easier to handle now, since his hair was still soft and velvety like a child's. _Just wait til puberty_, he thought. _Again_. Scowling, Harry rushed to his classroom.

He found it was easier to pretend to be a child if he thought of things in very simple terms. He kept his head down, tried not to draw attention to himself, and worked hard to keep his grades at the average. It was harder than expected, he had come to realize. He thought twice about everything, often thinking himself into circles trying to decide which problems would make the most sense for him to get wrong. He always chose a desk in the back and spoke in a quiet voice whenever an adult spoke to him directly. If anything, hopefully they would think he was shy.

At first, this practice frustrated him to all ends. He grew tired of waiting. Tired of pretending. He wanted to _do_ something. He had to learn quickly to vent these feelings in creative ways, or else risk another episode like in Kindergarten.

It had been only months since he had arrived. He was being mocked by Dudley and ostracized by the rest of the class, but he told himself he didn't mind. He worked so hard to appear less intelligent than he was, that the teacher actually called the Dursleys and informed them that he had 'special needs.' He got the brunt of that one at home, with Vernon calling him retarded and Petunia prattling on about putting him in a Special Education classroom. Even after Harry pulled his grades up, Dudley teased him for days. Finally, after Dudley cornered him in an empty classroom, with all his emotions bottled up, Harry exploded.

Almost literally.

Raw, accidental magic tore apart the classroom, throwing Dudley to the wall. Teachers and children alike rushed over to find an utterly destroyed room, a wailing Dudley, and a fuming yet still quite shocked Harry. He was locked in his cupboard for well over a month after that, even after being assigned countless extra chores and yelled at until he was sure his eardrums would collapse.

Now, however, three years after his Arrival, Harry was well practiced at appearing to be a normal—albeit quiet—child. He did his homework with mistakes and eraser marks, he did his chores, and he didn't talk back to his aunt and uncle—a victory he wished fervently he could brag to someone about.

There were a lot of things he wished he could show people back home. He wished Ron could see how well he could lie now, which had come to be an extremely useful talent. He wished Hermione could see how much effort he was putting into planning.

He wished Sirius could see how much he was going through to save him.

Harry rubbed his eyes furiously, sitting in his desk at the back of the class. That wasn't what he was doing this for. He wasn't doing it for the glory—for people to notice what he was doing and congratulate him on it. But… he wished they were here with them. At least he would have someone to really talk to.

"Harry Potter, are you listening?" The teacher snapped. She was a strict woman with a frowning mouth and very little patience for children. Harry often wondered why she was a teacher at all.

Harry straightened up, putting on his best innocent, 'I'm-just-a-kid' face. And as she began quizzing him on his multiplication, Harry couldn't help but answer them correctly. Maybe he would let himself be good at Maths. After all, every child was good at something.

Besides, Dudley was rubbish at Maths.

* * *

After returning to Privet Drive every day, Harry would quickly do his chores then escape outside. Some days he would go to the park and wade in the creek. Others he jogged around town. He found running not only built up his strength, but also helped release a lot of his frustration. The Dursleys never really minded where he went, as long as he was back in time for dinner. Then he would clean up and retreat to his cupboard.

As small as the cupboard under the stairs was, it was _his_ place. It was a space where no one else came—not even Petunia, who absolutely abhorred spiders. He often laid out on his little bed and thought of Hogwarts. It was one of the few things that kept him sane, for it reminded him that there was something to look forward to. In just a few more years, he would be home again. In just a few more years, he would see his best friends.

Harry tried to remember their faces, but he could only picture two figures—one with short red hair and the other with bushy brown hair. Frustrated, he kneaded his fists into his temples. But pushing his memory only made it worse. He rolled over and growled into his pillow. After the beating today, slipping into a depressed mood was especially easy.

Reaching into his pillow case, Harry drew out the tiny Aevus Obio. He rolled onto his back, holding the blue box up to the light. This was another of the rare things that kept him from going mad. He used it as an anchor. It told him that his past life hadn't been a dream—that he wasn't just some deranged kid making up stories for himself.

Breathing in deeply, Harry replaced the box in its hiding place. It was time to get some homework done.

* * *

The months passed slowly. Harry's loneliness reached a peak at his tenth birthday, when he knew that there was a whole year between him and Hogwarts. Or perhaps there wasn't a Hogwarts. Perhaps this was an alternate universe where magic didn't exist. Perhaps he was a muggle.

Harry knew well that these were illogical fears. After all, how else did he blow up that kindergarten classroom? _But then_, he often thought, _how often are fears logical?_

That night, after counting down the minutes until he was ten years old, technically twenty years old, Harry felt restless. His lungs were tight, his legs itched, and his fingers grasped for a wand that he knew wasn't there. Feeling slightly flushed, Harry snuck out of the house and, upon meeting the sidewalk, broke into a run. He pushed his legs harder than ever, breathing hard. It was a warm night, not unlike the night he left the Dursleys' as a fifteen-year-old. Tears pricked his eyes and an ache stabbed at his side, but he ran even faster until he could run no more.

Collapsing onto the grass in front of a house, Harry laid there, staring at the stars and waiting for his breath to settle. He wondered briefly where the Sirius constellation was. He pondered what Petunia would think if she saw him lying on the front lawn of a stranger. Then he sat up, scratching lazily at his head. He wasn't far from the park. In fact, this was the street he had lugged Dudley down after the dementors attacked. Then they met Mrs. Figg, and Harry found out she was a squib.

Harry leapt to his feet. _Mrs. Figg!_ He hadn't been to her place in ages. Somehow the Dursleys let him stay in the house by himself more often than he had his first time around. Maybe he seemed more mature this time. He began walking toward the old cat lady's house, then slowed. Even if she was a squib, there was no way to see. There was no proof around her house, otherwise he would have noticed it. It wasn't as if he could ask her, either. After all, he was supposed to be an ignorant little boy of ten.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, laughing at himself inwardly. Whether he would find anything or not, she definitely wouldn't be awake at this hour. He was being especially thick today. Still… maybe he could stop by for a visit tomorrow. It would be nice to be near someone who didn't hate him, after all.

The next afternoon, instead going running, Harry jogged to Mrs. Figg's house. He slowed to a stop when he saw a cat sitting on the porch. It stared at him with wide yellow eyes. Harry rolled his eyes at himself inwardly. It wasn't like it would attack him or anything. Still, he inched forward slowly, watching the grey cat watch him. It was unnaturally still, even once he was close enough to touch it. It simply sat there.

Harry crouched down and stared it straight in the face. It looked back, unperturbed. He blew lightly. Its whiskers twitched. He held out a hand. It leaned forward to smell. Then, as if it had been planning to all along, the cat got up and sauntered away.

"Huh." Harry watched its tail disappear around the house. Then, shrugging, he stepped up and rapped smartly on the door.

The woman who answered was much taller than he remembered. She wore her hair up in a bun, with a couple of crocheting needles stuck through. Now that he was looking more carefully, he noticed that she dressed rather oddly. Her blouse could have passed for a sweater if it had longer sleeves, and she wore a long, flowery skirt and a couple of maroon slippers.

"Harry!" She sounded more shocked than pleased, but a smile appeared on her face nonetheless. "Why, haven't you grown! Please, come in!" She ushered him in with a half hug, as if she was restraining herself from a full-out embrace. Harry shuffled in, trying not to wrinkle his nose at her home's strange odor. It smelled of cats and something oddly familiar that he could not place.

"Sit, sit! I'll go get you some tea, shall I?" She shuffled to the kitchen, tailed by an orange tabby.

Trying to ignore the stares coming from cats around the room, Harry inspected the house. The soft pink sofa was rather torn up from cat claws, but still useable. He scowled at the two cat plates hanging on the wall, reminded horribly of Umbridge and her collection. These pictures, to his disappointment and relief, did not move at all. A fireplace stood across the room, a fancy urn on its mantel.

Harry eyed the urn curiously, then walked up to look at it more closely. It could have been the ashes of her favorite cat. Or husband? That was a strange thought. But there was something else it could have been. Floo powder. Harry reached up to grasp the lid.

Mrs. Figg came bumbling out of the kitchen, holding a tray stacked with tea and biscuits. "Here we are," she said breathlessly. Harry yanked his hand away sharply, but only managed to knock over the urn with a loud clank. Dull ash spilled out across the mantle and onto the floor. Harry gave a yelp, catching the urn just before it fell to the floor as well. And there he stood, frozen, covered in grey powder, looking guiltily back at Mrs. Figg.

The squib covered her mouth with a hand, obviously hiding her amusement. She placed the tray on the coffee table. "Oh dear, that's quite the mess, isn't it? Here, let me go get a broom." Harry grimaced at the sound of her chuckles disappearing down the hall. _At least she wasn't angry,_ he thought wryly. Cradling the urn in one arm, Harry used the other hand to inspect the dust. It didn't look anything like Floo Powder. _Which means this is…_ Harry shuddered, trying not to think about it.

After they got things cleaned up, Harry apologizing profusely, they settled down for tea. "So, Harry, what brings you back to this old place? Not that I don't enjoy seeing you of course," she added kindly, "but I had thought you had your fill of babysitting fun."

Harry took a moment to sip his tea, thinking quickly. "I was wondering… I was wondering if there was any chance you knew my parents. The Dursleys never talk about them, so—" he broke off at the look of surprise on Mrs. Figg's face. The surprise melted into sorrow for a brief second, then morphed into a gentle smile.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I didn't." She busied herself with the teapot. Harry felt badly for bringing it up. He had never actually considered that she knew them, but perhaps she had been their friend through Dumbledore. After all, they had all been part of the Order of the Phoenix in the old days.

"That's fine." Harry shrugged and took a bite of a biscuit. Like everything else Mrs. Figg gave him, it was a little on the stale side, but he didn't really mind. "I knew it was a long shot."

They chatted for a bit longer, then Mrs. Figg sent Harry off with a couple extra biscuits 'for the trip.' He thanked her politely, giving the nearest cat a pat on the head before leaving. She really was a nice woman—he wished he had realized that the first time around.

* * *

That night, Harry had a hard time falling asleep. He punched his raggedy pillow into different shapes, but nothing seemed to help. The idea that he had made the whole thing up nagged at him even more, after the fiasco at Mrs. Figg's. His mind spun, searching for ideas. There had to be _something_ he could do to find out the truth. Something to calm his troubled mind once and for all.

As he spiraled deeper into that calm state before slumber, he finally snagged one idea. One full of improbability, and yet it gave him a sliver of hope.

Hermione lived in London.


	4. Chapter 4

_*Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a fanfiction, and I am in no way profiting from it.*_

Harry mulled it over for days. At first, the idea seemed almost ridiculous. London was an hour's drive away by automobile, and would probably take twice as long using Muggle public transportation. Taking the Knight Bus was completely out, as there was no chance of him ever getting hold of even a knut as long as he was surrounded by Muggles. Yet, if he could do some work secretly for Mrs. Figg, she might give him a little money—just enough for a round trip to London.

There was also the issue of not having a clue where Hermione lived in London, but Harry thought he could figure it out. Perhaps he could find a phone book. He could look up the Grangers' Dentist Practice, and go from there.

The whole plan was a longshot—Harry knew that well. But as he sorted out the details, his heart hiccupped with excitement. It would be wicked to see one of his best friends again.

If Mrs. Figg was surprised to see him back the next day, she didn't show it. She graciously let him in, joking lightly that she would have to buy more biscuits if this habit continued. When Harry broached the topic of possible chores she needed done around the house, she latched on to the idea with enthusiasm.

"Every boy needs to learn how to deal with money responsibly." She sat beside Harry on the sofa, absentmindedly stroking the belly of a kitten with a finger as it lay in her lap. "And heaven knows I don't have the energy I used to."

So that was how it began. Harry snuck over to Mrs. Figg's house every other day after school to pull weeds, vacuum floors, mow the lawn… anything they could think of. In return, she gave the boy ten pounds per week and as much food as he could eat. Every time he came back to ask for something else to do, it seemed like she always had a tray with biscuits, lemonade, or even little tuna sandwiches.

While he ate his snacks, they chatted about everything under the sun. She asked him about school, and he told her about his good grades in math and his struggles with history. He asked about her family and learned—after some prodding and wheedling—she had been engaged years ago to a man who somehow disappeared off the face of the earth. She spoke of it casually, but Harry could tell that deep down she was still hurting.

Slowly, with every plate of sweets and load of trimmed grass, Harry came to know and trust a side of Mrs. Figg he hadn't known even existed. He learned that she was lonely, but knew all of her cats by name and personality. He learned that she was fascinated by the stars and often wished she could have gone to school and studied them. He learned that she had a secret fondness for dogs, but couldn't have any because of a deathly allergy.

She also gave great advice. She seemed to have an answer for every issue put against her, although Harry challenged that multiple times.

"Say… say a person was trying to help a friend, but in trying to help them, put them into a situation where they d—where something bad happened to the friend. What would you say to that person? I mean, it's their fault, right?" Harry knew how obvious he was being, but it didn't really matter. There was no way she could know what he was talking about, after all.

"Where you come up with these scenarios, I'll never know," Mrs. Figg mumbled. Harry scratched the back of his neck nervously. "What would I say to that person… well, I'd tell them that if their intentions were pure, then of course it's not their fault. It is the fault of the person who caused the bad thing to happen, if there is such a person."

"But… but it was my—it was that person's fault the friend was there in the first place!" Harry was getting agitated. He sat on the edge of the couch, knees bouncing with nerves. "They need to have at least some of the blame."

Mrs. Figg watched Harry carefully. "Say I invited you to go to a movie with me. We both got into the car, drove onto the highway, and got into a car accident. Would that be my fault? It would be my fault you were there with me."

Harry shook his head. "No way! I mean, it would be my choice to get into the car with you."

"Exactly!" Mrs. Figg leaned back into the sofa with satisfaction. "It's the same with your friend. From the sound of things, he still made his own decisions. How could he not? We're all in charge of ourselves, in the end. No one can know what will happen in the future. That's one thing we all have to deal with equally—the unknown."

"It wasn't—I mean…" Harry grimaced. "Alright, I suppose that makes sense…"

And in return, Mrs. Figg became much more knowledgeable about Harry than he had anticipated.

"You're such a smart boy, Harry," she said one day over tea and crumpets, shaking her head.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "I'm not that smart. Dudley always gets much better marks than I do. Although, I'm pretty sure that's because he makes another kid in his class do his homework." He always felt badly about not standing up for the other boy, but that feeling disappeared after he tried, and the boy quite plainly told Harry to mind his own business. With his fist. Harry tried hard not to think about the implications of being picked on by the boy everyone picked on.

"Perhaps not in a book-ish way," Mrs. Figg said, thoughtfully buttering Harry another crumpet. "But there's more than one kind of intelligence, you know. There are people-smarts, money-smarts, emotion-smarts… But your intelligence is one of life. Sometimes… sometimes it's as if you're a man in a little body, just bursting to come out."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, picking at a torn section of the sofa. It was easy to lie to the Dursleys and teachers—they didn't give a Blast-Ended Skrewt's behind about him. But with Mrs. Figg, somehow, he couldn't seem to put the right words together.

"T-thanks for the tea, Mrs. Figg, but I've got to get going." Harry finished his cup with a large gulp.

Her face fell slightly. "Oh dear, but you haven't finished your snack yet."

Harry stood up, not looking her in the eye. "It's the Dursleys… You know how they are. I need to be home in time to make dinner."

Mrs. Figg's forehead wrinkled, as it often did when the Dursleys were brought into the conversation. "Yes, yes, of course. I suppose you'll be wanting this, then." She held out a ten-pound note. Harry pocketed it quickly and, with a word of thanks, left.

* * *

Back in the safety of his cupboard, Harry counted his money. It had been a little over a month since he started working for Mrs. Figg, now resulting in fifty pounds even. He wasn't sure why he hadn't traveled to London after the first week. Ten pounds would have gotten him to London without a problem. Perhaps he was waiting for the right moment. Or perhaps getting to know Mrs. Figg had sidetracked him slightly.

Harry lay back on his bed, clutching the pound notes to his chest. If he was honest with himself, however, he knew that he was afraid. He smirked slightly. Harry Potter, a boy who survived meeting Voldemort five times, was afraid of a trip to London. He couldn't really place why exactly. Was he nervous about meeting Hermione? His stomach curled into a ball at the thought, so he took that as a yes.

Hermione had been there for him ever since that troll incident in first year. What if she was different, somehow? What if he couldn't get her—or any of them, really—to be his friend this time around? He was a completely different person, after all. Would they sense that he didn't belong?

His musings were interrupted by what sounded like an elephant stampede above his head. Wood bits and dust rained down on his face. He sneezed. Dudley and at least one friend were headed downstairs.

"Hey, Potty!" Dudley's voice called from outside the cupboard door. "You in there?"

Harry groaned. It sounded like Dudley was preparing for another round of Harry-hunting. Glancing down at his hands, Harry's stomach dropped. His money. He had to hide his money.

Jumping out of bed, Harry glanced around for a good hiding place. Finally, he stuffed the bills under the mattress. In his haste, bills went flying and he struggled to contain them before—

The door opened. Harry sat on the floor in front of his bed, his face flushed. Dudley looked down at him suspiciously, gaining a third chin. His thin blonde hair was slimed to the top of his fat head. "Checking for dust bunnies?" Piers, Dudley's second-in-command, chuckled behind him. Piers was an odd sort of bloke, with a face like a weasel and a boney structure that resulted in an odd gait. In fact, if he wasn't so mean, he probably would have gotten picked on himself.

Harry scowled. "Get out of here, Dudders. Your mummy wouldn't want you coming down here, would she? I might infect you." He wiggled his fingers ominously at his cousin. He had given up trying to be friends with the boy. During his antics, Harry spotted a crumpled bill on the floor out of the corner of his eye. Blood rushed from his face as he struggled to keep his expression blank. If Dudley found out he had money in here…

"Aww, is Baby Potty finally growing a back bone?" Piers showed a row of crooked teeth as he grinned. "We might have to fix that, Dud."

Harry stiffened. He tried breathing deeply. It wasn't a good idea to get them riled up. He just had to think this through…

"Nah, it's impossible for him to have a back bone. Dad says his dad didn't have one either, so it must run in the family," Dudley sneered.

"Was that a somewhat intelligent sentence I heard? Who are you and what have you done to our Dudley?" Harry said in mock surprise. As Dudley's eyes narrowed, Harry knew he had made a mistake. But somehow, he didn't really regret it. It felt as if something had finally snapped inside—something that had been taking abuse for far too long.

Dudley grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him into the hallway. Piers sat on his legs as Dudley pummeled Harry with his fists. Harry cried out in pain when Dudley hit his face, and Petunia came around the corner to see what the noise was about.

"Dudley!" She hissed, her eyes wide. "Shame on you! You should know better!" The three boys looked up at her in confusion. Harry's heart fluttered. Was she actually defending him? "Look at this mess!" She gestured at Harry's bleeding nose. "I do _not_ want blood on my carpet, do you hear?"

She tossed Harry an old towel. "Go get cleaned up before you cause even more trouble," she scowled.

Nodding thickly as he pressed the towel to his face, Harry was careful to shut his cupboard door before heading to the bathroom. As he passed the other boys, Harry gave them a look to make sure they understood. He was tired of getting beat up. He _would_ get them back, somehow. Dudley and Piers smirked, but Harry knew they wouldn't for long.

He was done.


	5. Chapter 5

_*Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a fanfiction, and I am in no way profiting from it.*_

_With special thanks to my wonderful Beta, __**Spark Writer!**_

The next day at school, Harry took his normal place in the back of the class. His face looked slightly bruised in the right light, but he otherwise seemed untouched. The way he held himself, however, was completely different. Instead of huddling in the back, hoping to stay unnoticed, he straightened his shoulders. He looked his classmates in the eyes. He still didn't want to attract suspicion, but he would do it in a way that attracted respect. That was all he wanted, in the end.

At recess, Harry found Dudley and his gang writing rude words on the schoolhouse with chalk. "Hey there, Big D." Dudley turned, his whale of a face showing obvious surprise.

"You have a death wish, Potty?" one of Dudley's goons spoke up.

"Not really." Harry shrugged. "I like a quiet life, actually. It's everyone else who seems to wish me dead."

While his friends exchanged glances of amusement and curiosity, Dudley took a step toward Harry. "Why wouldn't they? You're nothing important. I doubt anyone would even care if you disappeared."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Dudley?" Harry said casually, his hands in his pockets. "And I'm sure that will happen eventually. But for now, I have a proposition for you." He gestured for Dudley to come closer, then leaned over and whispered so only his cousin could hear. "Leave me alone, or else I'll tell everyone about the time you wet your pants at the mall because you were so terrified of Santa Claus."

Dudley's eyes bugged out and Harry knew—for a child, he had made a low blow. But he didn't care. It was rather nice to see his cousin flounder. Dudley's gang muttered to each other behind him, clearly wondering what was going on. The fat boy's face turned a strange color of purple, reminiscent of the lovely shade of puce his dad often turned.

"You—" Dudley cracked his knuckles. "You wouldn't—" He growled in frustration. Harry simply watched. The chubby boy seemed to deflate slightly.

"C'mon guys," Dudley muttered to his friends. Confused, they looked back at Harry.

"What about—" Piers started.

"Now!" Dudley bellowed, swelling up like a gorilla. His friends followed him away, sending Harry evil looks. But he was satisfied. This would definitely make his life a bit easier.

* * *

"You did what?" Mrs. Figg looked at Harry with shock. For some reason, he felt all kinds of ashamed, which he covered with anger.

"He had it coming to him! I was just standing up for myself, after all." Harry wasn't sure how they had gotten to this topic. Perhaps he had just wanted to show someone that he could take care of himself.

Mrs. Figg gave Harry a long look over her cup of tea. "I never expected that kind of behavior from you. It's so very Slyth—it's so very silly." She fumbled with the tea pot, pouring more into her nearly full cup.

Harry was too frustrated to notice. "What else was I supposed to do? Let him keep using me as a punching bag? I've tried being nice—that only made things worse!"

"But at least you would have known you were acting morally right, and he was not. You would have had the moral high ground." Mrs. Figg looked at him sternly. "Now, all you have done is lowered yourself to his level."

Harry slammed his cup down on the coffee table. "Thanks for the tea," he said sharply. He felt Mrs. Figg's eyes on him as he got up and strode to the door, ignoring the gentle yet firm way she called his name.

Once he was outside, he ran. He ran out of Privet Drive, past the school, to the edge of town. His thoughts moved as quickly as he did.

_I'm right. She's wrong. She doesn't know that I'm an adult in a child's body, otherwise she would have reacted differently. I have a right to protect myself. It would just be a stupid rumor, after all. I'm sure he'd get over it…_

He stopped running at a grocery store, gasping with his hands on his knees. It was a small, rather old-looking shop with dirty windows and peeling paint.

"Hey!" He looked up to see a young girl about nine or ten sitting on the railing in front of the store, legs swinging. Her brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail. "Did you win?"

"What?" Harry panted.

"The race. Did you win?" The girl banged a stick against the metal, making it ring.

"I'm not racing. There's no one but me." Harry felt a bit annoyed at having to explain himself to a little girl.

If she sensed this, she ignored it. "So? Just because you're on your own, doesn't mean you're not racing against something." At Harry's incredulous stare, the girl rolled her eyes dramatically and hopped off. She walked toward him. She wore a pair of worn, holey jeans and a deep blue top.

"There are two reasons why people run." She spoke matter-of-factly, swinging her stick. "…either to leave someone else behind or to leave part of themselves behind. Since you're not racing against anyone else, you must be racing against part of you. So did you win? Did you leave what you wanted to behind?"

Harry gawked dumbly. "Er—I dunno. I was just…running."

The girl stopped in front of him, looking at him sideways. "You are rather thick, aren't you?" Her voice wasn't accusatory, but more as if she were commenting on a particularly interesting shaped cloud.

Feeling a mixture of affront and amusement, he couldn't help but chuckle, feeling at a loss of how to react to this strange girl. She sort of reminded him of Luna Lovegood. "I've been told as much, yeah. But it would help if you didn't speak like a fortune cookie."

"Do I?" The girl just grinned in return, and the two fell into an oddly comfortable silence.

"You're right, you know." Harry finally spoke up, glancing around with distinctive discomfort. "I was running away because I was angry with myself. I did something I shouldn't have, a good friend was honest with me, and I was angry with myself for being stupid and… I have no idea why I'm telling you this." Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I should learn to keep my mouth shut."

The girl tapped Harry on the shoulder with her stick with an air that he guessed was supposed to be comforting. "You and the rest of the world. But the answer is simple."

Harry raised his eyebrows. He couldn't tell if she was patronizing him or just being rude. "And what's that?"

She leaned forward. She smelled of celery. Harry could see a collection of freckles spread across her nose. "Keep whatever promises you've made to yourself. That should make you feel better." She turned to leave.

"Wait!" Harry called out. She stopped and turned. "What's your name?"

"You can call me Jenny," she said in a sing-song voice, as if he should already know that.

"Great, but… who are you?" Harry knew he wasn't making any sense, but this strange girl intrigued him.

"I'm your companion, of course!" With that, she skipped away.


	6. Chapter 6

_*Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a fanfiction, and I am in no way profiting from it.*_

_Of course, I would be remiss if I forgot to thank my most amazing Beta, __**Spark Writer**__! You all wish you had a Beta like mine. Be jealous.  
Because the last chapter was so short… and because I'm listening to Frank Sinatra and thus in a great mood, here's an early chapter! Enjoy! Or don't. You don't even have to read it. But have a great day, either way!_

* * *

It took Harry a while to get to sleep that night. He couldn't stop thinking about what the girl, Jenny, had said. He had, indeed, been running away from his own issues. But how had she known that? Who _was_ she? What did she mean, 'keep whatever promises you've made to yourself'?

Harry flipped to his stomach, laying his chin on his arms in front of him. He _had_ been getting sidetracked lately. His whole point in coming back in time was to save Sirius, but he hadn't actually gotten anywhere with it. How could he? He couldn't exactly go to Dumbledore right now and announce that his godfather was innocent. How would he even get to Hogwarts? The idea was absurd. No, he would have to wait until his first year to deal with that, if he wanted to keep his secret.

That line of thought brought him back to another issue—the one that scared him more than anything. But there was one way to make himself feel better.

He would visit Hermione tomorrow and find out for sure. No matter what.

Harry was especially quiet the next morning as he got ready for school. He went over the plan over and over in his mind as he flipped the bacon, as he scrubbed the table clean, as he tied his shoelaces. And as Dudley was catching a few more minutes of his favorite morning cartoon with his mouth hanging open, Petunia was gossiping to nobody in particular about the neighbor's garden gnomes, and Vernon was finishing his coffee behind the paper, Harry slipped out the front door.

Instead of turning right toward the school, he slung his pack over a shoulder and headed left as if he did so every morning. The bus station was a few blocks away, but Harry didn't mind the walk. With the Aevus Obio, fifty pounds in cash, and a change of clothes on his back, he felt ready to face the world.

Harry rather changed his mind forty-five minutes later as he stood at the station, wind sweeping rain over him in buckets. When the bus finally squealed to a stop in front of him, hissing exhaust fumes, the driver chuckled as Harry squelched his way up the steps.

The driver wasn't quite as amused when he found out Harry didn't have any bills smaller than ten pounds. He scowled, pointing at a tiny sign that read, 'Driver doesn't carry change.' Frustrated, Harry was nearly ready to tell the man to keep the change when a teenage boy reached over and dumped a token in the slot. Satisfied, the driver shut the doors and grumbled at Harry to sit down.

Harry nodded his thanks to the boy and took a seat nearby. He was the type of person that would inspire a scowling Petunia to lead Dudley away, ranting loudly about the 'nerve of some people.' His nose, lip, and ears were pierced, his hair and fingernails were colored black, and Harry was pretty sure he was wearing eyeliner.

"Where are you headed?" The other boy shifted a guitar case to the floor, glancing up at Harry curiously.

"London," Harry said without thinking.

"London!" He smirked. "You're going to be riding the bus for a long time, aren't you?"

Harry shrugged. "It'll be worth it. I'm going to visit a friend. I… haven't seen her in a while. It should be great."

The other boy grinned. "A girl, eh? Well that explains it, doesn't it?" He winked suggestively.

Harry looked at his feet, his cheeks burning. "It's not like that." He rubbed the back of his neck. It never had been like that with Hermione. She was like the sister he never had, like Ron was his brother. Loneliness forced its way up Harry's throat, stinging his eyes. _Merlin_, he missed them.

The boy with the guitar case rode with Harry for another fifteen minutes, chatting lightly about nothing in particular. Then he gave him a light punch in the shoulder before leaving. "Good luck with your girl, mate!" Harry rolled his eyes, but waved in return.

After his new friend left, the ride became increasingly boring. Harry tried passing the time by listening to the conversations around him, counting how many drivers who passed were on their cell phones, and even going over spells in his head. Between transfers, Harry was able to get some change for his large bills at a petrol station, as well as an early lunch. He regretted practically inhaling the low-grade, slightly frozen burrito later when his third transfer put him at the mercy of a driver who liked to take particularly sharp turns.

He also used the down time to look over the Plan he had written five years ago. It had undergone a lot of editing and even rewriting, since he was forced to eat the paper at least twice to evade its discovery. However, it still held many of the same ideas. Uncrumpling the ball of paper, he smoothed it out on the seat and read,

_-Befriend Dudley__ (Mission Impossible)_

_-Pass as an average boy. No one can find out what happened._

_-Don't make too many changes. I need my knowledge to be as accurate as possible._

_-Make friends with __Hermione, Ron, Neville, Ginny, and Luna. They stood by me in the Department of Mysteries, so I know I can trust them._

_-Fool Dumbledore_

_-Do homework, especially DADA_

_-Save Sirius in year one_

_ +Kidnap Pettigrew_

_ +Prove Sirius' innocence_

_ +Keep him safe—tie him up if necessary_

Harry figured he should have written more for life before he actually got to Hogwarts. He really hadn't thought that… well, that it would take so _long_.

* * *

Finally, he was in London. Harry's stomach tingled with excitement. His feet swung cheerfully as he watched people walking between the tall buildings. He climbed off the bus at his final stop, glancing around with a grin on his face. There must have been a bakery nearby, because the smell of freshly baked bread pulled on his nose.

Since everyone else was head and shoulders above Harry, he climbed up the steps of a nearby building for a better look. Then, standing there, pack on his back as if he were off to grade school, it finally hit him. He was in London, all by himself, with no idea where to go.

Harry stuck out his chin stubbornly. He may have looked like a ten-year-old to the outside world, but he knew he had lived for twenty years. He could figure this out. He had come this far, and now he was going to find Hermione.

Suddenly, a dim memory of Ron's voice found its way to the top of Harry's mind. _'Because that's what Hermione does,' _his friend had said. _'When in doubt, go to the library.'_ A grin split onto his face once more. How very fitting.

After wandering about for quite some time, he finally asked a nice-looking young woman sitting at a nearby cafe for directions. In return, she drew out a map on a napkin, commenting on how sweet it was that a boy his age wanted to go to the library.

"You have restored my faith in the youth of this world!" she joked, smiling prettily.

The library was smaller than he expected, but then, he was used to the extensive collection of books at his magical school. Still, he wouldn't have admitted it to Ron, but the place was actually rather cozy. There were squishy brown armchairs scattered about the shelves, small chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and only a smattering of people who spoke in whispers, if at all.

After wandering about the library aimlessly for a while, Harry finally swallowed his pride and went back to the front desk to ask where they kept the phone book. The young woman behind the desk looked up from her book just long enough to point to a corner Harry had overlooked. There stood a little table holding a pink, old-fashioned analog phone and a thick, colorful book.

"Granger…Granger…" Harry muttered, flipping through the yellow pages. "Wait. Would their practice be under dentists?" He rubbed his scar absentmindedly.

"Need a hand?" An older man appeared beside him and laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. He wore a nametag that read, 'Dr. James McCrimmon.'

"Er—yes, please." Harry pulled on his fringe. "I'm trying to find a friend through her parents. They're dentists, see."

"Ah…" Mr. McCrimmon moved closer to the phone book. He wore a red and blue knit sweater that smelled of mint chocolate. "So you have already tried looking up their phone number and address in the white pages?"

Harry blinked dumbly. Why hadn't _he_ thought of that? _Maybe I should take Muggle Studies instead of Divination,_ he thought, shaking his head. "I haven't, but that's an excellent idea." Harry shifted uncomfortably, wishing he could have control of the phone book again, but not knowing how to politely let the man know. "Their surname is Granger."

The old man continued turning pages with practiced, albeit shaky hands. "Hmm…" He ran a finger down the page. "Ah! Here we are. There are six Grangers in London. What are the names of your friend's parents?"

"I—I don't know," Harry murmured. He closed his eyes, probed his temple with a finger, and sighed. He was about to do a lot of walking.

* * *

_It was a good thing I brought so much money._

_It was a good thing I started so early in the day. _

_It's—it's a good thing it's not raining anymore. _

Harry was working hard to think positively and keep a good attitude. It wasn't exactly helping. The paper with six Granger addresses written on them was now wrinkled and slightly sweaty from his hands. He was currently searching for number four. Number two had been the farthest away from the others and number three owned a rather large, excitable dog. Harry was glad to check that one off without even getting close. Hermione had never said anything about pets, except Crookshanks, of course.

It was hot and muggy outside. The sun was covered by a layer of grey clouds, but that didn't stop it from heating the earth below. Harry really wanted a shower, especially if he were going to see Hermione today. He had decided not to actually talk to her yet. He just wanted to see her. He wanted a reassurance that she was there.

At least this was a decent neighborhood. Harry passed children outside playing street hockey, dribbling basketballs in their driveways, and climbing trees in their front yards. It looked as if more than a couple had come home from school, thrown their backpack on their lawns, and run to play with their friends.

As he walked farther, he passed more children walking on the sidewalk, wearing backpacks. A couple boys sped past him from behind, nearly knocking him over. Harry scowled. Where were they going in such a hurry?

He watched them stop in front of a young girl with bushy brown hair and a light blue backpack.

Harry jogged closer, his heart beating a little faster. There she was! He tried to keep a grin from taking over his face. Instead, he hid behind a set of nearby bushes. His muscles groaned, reminding him painfully about all the hours of work he had been putting them through recently. Shifting his filthy trainers in the soil, he tilted his head, struggling to separate the sound of their voices into distinct words.

"C'mon. It's just one assignment. We'll be your best friends forever, promise!" a boy said smoothly.

"I don't know…" Hermione's voice was so young! Harry waved away a bee buzzing in his ear, trying to hear.

"—one of the cool girls, Granger. We knew we could trust you to keep a secret," the other boy spoke up. He sounded as if he had a bad cold, sniffing between every couple words.

"Well, I suppose—"

"Ouch!" The bee stung the side of Harry's face. He fell backwards onto a bunch of flowers in surprise, waving off the insect frantically.

"Hey you!" an old lady shouted from the porch. "You're squashing my begonias! Get off my property, you little rat!" Harry looked up just in time to see a stream of water shooting at him.

"Sorr—hey!" He scrambled back out of the garden, the pressure of the water nearly blinding him. Once he made it to the sidewalk, the lady squirted him once more for good measure then turned off the hose.

Soaking wet for the second time that day, Harry took off his glasses and wiped water out of his eyes. "Merlin's pants!" he sputtered, hunched and dripping. He cleaned off his glasses the best he could and replaced them to see a very young Hermione and the two boys watching him.

The look on Hermione's face was a mixture of sympathy and amusement. The boys broke out laughing. "Man, you should have seen your face!" The kid wiped his nose on his sleeve, grinning.

As they were walking away, still chuckling to themselves, the first boy called back. "Don't forget, Granger! Pages 50-53! And don't make it sound too smart, eh?"

Hermione's face fell. Harry wrung out his shirt onto the sidewalk. "Don't do it."

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Don't do it." Harry knew he was breaking at least two of his rules by speaking to her, but he had to say something. "Those boys, they don't care about you. They're using you."

"How do you know?" Hermione snapped. "What, do you think that they couldn't possibly want to be friends with someone like me?"

Harry took a step back. Obviously, he had hit a sore spot. "Er—of course not—I mean, they—"

"And what business is it of yours what I do with my time, anyway?" Hermione interrupted stiffly, her mouth trembling. "I don't even know you." She huffed and turned to walk away. Harry's heart fell. He had messed up. Now she would hate him forever unless he did something. He clenched his fists.

"Because you deserve better than that!" Harry raised his voice. She slowed. "You deserve better than that kind of shallow friendship. You deserve a real friend. Someone like… well..." His voice trailed off to a whisper, his breath shaky. "…like me."

Spinning around, Hermione looked at him sideways. "You don't know me. Why would _you_ want to—to be my friend?" For a split second, Harry saw his old friend for who she really was—a shy little girl who was painfully lonely. How hadn't he noticed that in their first year?

Harry scratched his head, flicking off bits of water in a mini shower. "Because you're brilliant. Those kids—" he gestured backwards, "—they're just too thick to realize it yet."

Hermione stared at him. Harry shifted his feet and shook his hands. At first, his surprise wash had felt refreshing. Now, however, he was beginning to feel quite chilled and it didn't mix well with the anxiety that made his fingers tingle.

Finally, she allowed something of a smile to grace her lips. "Come on." She motioned toward a nearby house. "You look like you could use a towel."


	7. Chapter 7

_*Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a fanfiction, and I am in no way profiting from it.*_

_Sorry for the wait, everybody! If you ever get bored, feel free to check out my…trilogy…thing… ahem. The first is called **The Worst Sort of Torture**, featuring Remus Lupin and Tonks. You can find all three in my profile. _

_*cough*shamelessplug *cough*_

_Anyway. Enjoy._

* * *

Harry stood barefoot on the cool tile of the bathroom, staring at his reflection. He ran a hand through his hair. It was drying at even odder angles than usual. He had changed into his second set of clothing, which he was forever grateful he had thought to bring. _Shoes and socks would have been a good idea, though, _he thought, wiggling wrinkled toes. His shoes and wet clothes had been stuffed inside his backpack, which waited for him by the bath.

After having a brief staring contest with himself and pulling strange faces, Harry leaned over the sink. "You're procrastinating," he told himself.

He waggled his eyebrows. "Wouldn't you?" he replied.

"And you call yourself a Gryffindor." He shook his head disparagingly. Then, with a deep breath, he pushed away from the counter and opened the door to find Hermione standing behind it. Her fist was raised as if she were just about to knock.

"Oh. Hello," said Harry casually.

"Were you just—? …Never mind. Have you finished with the loo? _Some_ of us have been at school all day," she said bossily.

"How do you know I haven't been at school?" said Harry a tad defensively. "Maybe I came straight here afterwards."

"Please. Who brings a change of clothes along to school?" She looked him up and down. "Besides, your pack was much too light to have any books inside. I could tell earlier." Hermione pushed past him to get to the bathroom. Before shutting the door, she added, "You may wait in the sitting room until I'm done."

Harry grinned fondly and did as he was told. The Granger homestead was neat and clean, with bits of character splashed about in random places. Their sitting room, for example, was lined with three tall bookcases, effectively making it look a bit like a tiny library. Along one wall was a velvet, pea green couch with matching armchairs placed in the corners of the room. In front of the large window that led out to the front lawn, there stood a shiny, black baby grand piano.

He walked over to the fancy little piano and hit a key. It let out a clear note, echoing pleasurably against the wooden floor and walls. Clearly, the Grangers were a lot better off than the rest of the neighborhood. They didn't seem to go out of their way to show it off, though, like the Dursleys would have done. In fact, besides the piano and the large collection of books, everything else in the house was stubbornly average.

Wandering into the kitchen, he saw a refrigerator layered with homework papers, all marked with A's and 100's. Colorful bowls of fruit were printed around the wallpaper in an eternal line. A desk off to the side held neat plastic shelves, a mug full of pens, and a black desktop computer. There was a plate of biscuits on the counter—freshly made, from the smell. Harry inched closer, his mouth watering.

Just as he stepped forward, a tall woman nearly bustled into him. "Oh! I'm so sorry dear," she said, pressing a hand over her heart. She stuck a string of brown hair behind her ear, which had fallen from a messy bun with a pen held in its embrace. She gave him an odd look. "And who might you be?"

"Hello, ma'am," he answered, shuffling his feet guiltily and thinking he probably shouldn't have been wandering about someone else's home. "I'm sorry, I was waiting for—"

"Whatever happened to waiting in the sitting room?" a rather annoyed voice said from behind him. Harry pressed his back against the wall so that he wasn't in danger of becoming a Granger sandwich.

"I got bored," he said honestly, shrugging.

"Hermione," her mother said in a voice tinged with curiosity, "Who's your friend?"

"This is… erm…" Hermione's cheeks turned slightly pink.

"Harry, ma'am. Harry Potter." He held out a hand, which the woman shook, exchanging glances with her daughter. "Hermione and I just met. She was kind enough to let me borrow your bathroom."

"What lovely manners!" Mrs. Granger smiled. Harry smirked inwardly. If there was one thing he had become good at, it was impressing adults. If only it worked on people his own age… He glanced over at Hermione, who did not look half as impressed. "Why don't you join us for a snack, Harry? I've just baked us some biscuits."

Harry nodded eagerly. "Yes, please!" His stomach agreed whole-heartedly.

Over biscuits and milk, Mrs. Granger chatted easily with Harry, telling him about her work as a dentist. Mrs. Granger attempted a couple of times to include her daughter in the conversation, but mostly Hermione sat in silence, dunking biscuits in her mug. Harry shot her a concerned glance. That wasn't like her at all.

"We take turns coming home from work early so that one of us will be here when Hermione gets back from school." Mrs. Granger wiped her hands on a napkin, nodding at her daughter. "But listen to me! Prattling on about myself. What's your family like, Harry? Where do you live?"

"I live with my aunt and uncle in Surrey." Harry turned his attention to the mug in his hands and watched the bits of chocolate and biscuit float around.

"Surrey!" Mrs. Granger's mug froze halfway to her mouth. "What brings you out here? And on your own, too!"

Harry scanned the room, trying to figure out the best way to answer her questions. His eyes landed on a clock. Instead of numbers around the edge, there were twelve books—each from the same series, Harry guessed. But most of his attention went to the placement of the clock's hands.

"Merlin! I've got to go!" Harry slid off his stool at the bar. "Thank you for the snack, Mrs. Granger. I need to be home for dinner." Fear flowed through him at the thought of the Dursleys' faces if he was late clearing the table.

"Dinner?" Hermione finally spoke up. "But it's hardly past four…"

"I rode the bus." Harry bounced on the balls of his feet, already mentally out the door.

"The bus station that will take you to Surrey is over two miles away," Mrs. Granger said, watching Harry carefully.

His shoulders fell. He had forgotten to time in the walking distance. If it took him twenty minutes for every mile, then two hours for the bus ride home, adding in extra time for each stop the buses made on the way and between transfers…

"Not to worry, Harry. I can drive you." Mrs. Granger said with finality. She wouldn't hear anything Harry argued and instead ushered the two children out the door and into a small silver car. "Seatbelts, everyone!"

And so there Harry found himself, sitting beside a strangely quiet eleven-year-old Hermione, listening to her mum hum along to the radio.

"Thanks for—you know, letting me borrow a towel." Harry stole a glance in her direction.

"Anytime," Hermione said in a small voice. An awkward silence rose between the two. They looked out their perspective windows.

Nearly an hour later, Harry directed Mrs. Granger into Privet Drive. "It's number four," he said with distaste. She glanced back at him briefly in the rear view mirror, but complied.

As the car idled in front of the Dursley's house, Harry turned to Hermione. "Maybe… maybe we could write to each other? Be pen pals, of a sort?"

In answer, Hermione reached in the pocket behind the passenger seat and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, scribbling her address quickly. As the paper passed from her hand to his, his happiness must have shown on his face. Hermione immediately glanced down at her hands, cheeks tinged pink.

"Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Granger." Harry climbed out the car.

Mrs. Granger rolled down her window. "Come visit anytime, Harry." She smiled.

Harry waved as they drove away, clutching the paper tightly in his hand.

Dinner passed quickly. The Dursleys rambled on about their own lives, often speaking over each other as if they each thought what they had to say was more important. Harry ate as swiftly as he could, clearing dinner and disappearing into his cupboard.

He fell onto his bed, feeling absolutely content. He felt much better now that he knew his best friend was out there. It was as if he finally had a real connection to his past and his future. He pulled Hermione's address from his pocket, inspecting it. She always did have amazing handwriting. Folding it carefully, he placed atop a bit of wood in the ceiling where the steps jutted into his tiny room.

He stayed in there all evening, imagining he was at Hogwarts again. In his mind, he, Hermione, and Ron wandered the school beneath his invisibility cloak, experiencing close calls with Mrs. Norris and Filch, but never actually getting caught. He imagined they laughed about it afterward, not a care in the world.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, Harry stuck a hand beneath his pillow. His heart stopped. He sat up, hitting his head sharply against the low ceiling. He hardly noticed, throwing aside the pillow to look underneath. He ran a hand through his hair, hyperventilating.

The Aevus Obio was missing.


	8. Chapter 8

_*Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a fanfiction, and I am in no way profiting from it.*_

_I feel like I should apologize for some reason. My Remus/Tonks trilogy…thingy… came out much better than I expected, and now I'm looking back at this story like, "What was I thinking?" _

_I didn't used to even really _like _Remus/Tonks. _

_But this is an idea I've had for a while, watching other people make Harry this… jerk… and not wanting it to come out like that. But then I start wondering how it _will_ turn out, cuz honestly… Harry can be a jerk sometimes. _

_Is there any middle ground, here? Is it even possible for Harry to go to Hogwarts and NOT start messing with people's lives and turning into a monstrous toe rag? Everything in me says "Noooo! He's a better person than that!" But I really don't see how it could go any other way without being unrealistic. _

_Anyway. I'll stop rambling. Here's what I've got, like it or not. _

* * *

Harry thought back frantically. It had been in his backpack, along with his money and clothes. His backpack was… at Hermione's place. In the bathroom. Harry placed the pillow over his face and roared into it. He lay there for a moment, breathing heavily into the pillowcase. They wouldn't look in his backpack, would they? Even if they did, the Aevus Obio was on the bottom, below his clothes. They wouldn't… they wouldn't…

Harry threw out a fist, punching the wall.

Sitting at his desk the next day, he decided he wouldn't worry about it. The blue box couldn't have been in better hands, after all. He would simply go to London again. They would all have a good laugh about it, and Harry and Hermione would be able to actually talk this time. It would be great to talk to someone.

At recess, the kids avoided him even more than usual. Harry didn't really notice—or care—until he heard his name just before turning a corner. Curious, he pressed himself against the brick wall of the school and listened.

"I heard Potter threatened to kill him in his sleep!" one boy said in what only a child would describe as a whisper. "They live in the same house, you know."

"Nah, he must have something awful on Dudley and he said he'd tell. Maybe Dudley does drugs!" The kid sounded awfully hopeful.

Harry smirked. Leave it to children to blow something completely out of proportion.

"Why does Potter live with them, anyway? Doesn't he have his own house?"

"Nah, his parents died when he was really little. I heard a teacher talking once." The first boy was speaking again. Harry had never noticed before, but now he realized that the boy's voice was quite annoying. "Said it was a car crash or something."

Silence followed.

"Well, I'd hate to be him! Hey! Did you see the look on Mrs. Martin's face when Seth farted in the middle of class?"

Harry chuckled darkly to himself, pushed off the wall, and walked in the opposite direction. The worst thing about children was that they could be cruel without even trying—or even realizing.

He did his chores at Mrs. Figg's quickly and quietly, politely declining any snacks. Mrs. Figg watched him carefully but said nothing about his change in attitude until he finally accepted a glass of water.

"Everything alright, Harry?" she said in a much too casual voice. "You're very quiet today."

Harry nodded, gave a small smile, and returned to his work.

Hands in his pockets, Harry wandered back to number four. He wondered what life would have been like, had his parents survived. He pictured a large house that was strangely reminiscent of the Burrow. The image of a couple standing in the door frame, arms around each other, floated about his brain. He would have a dog, Harry decided. And a little sister! Harry's face softened at the thought. If he had a little sister, he would play with her every day, letting her ride on his shoulders. He would teach her how to ride a broom and tell her where all the secret passageways were in Hogwarts.

A stab of sadness and longing hit his chest hard. He stopped to look up at the sky and breathe in deeply. This was why he didn't normally let his imagination go so far. It didn't matter what his life would have been like, because it wasn't like that. It would _never_ be like the simple perfection he imagined when his mind wandered a bit too far.

Harry looked up from his thoughts and realized he was at the Dursleys'. There was a silver car in the driveway. He frowned. Who would be here at this time of day? He snuck through the front door, hoping to speed across the hall to the kitchen without being spotted. Passing the sitting room, he glanced in quickly, and hurried past… just to backtrack immediately. His eyes widened.

Sitting there on Aunt Petunia's stiff, flowery couch was a man Harry dimly recognized as Hermione's father. A rather uncomfortable-looking Hermione sat beside him, hands folded tightly in her lap. Harry's backpack lay at her feet. Her eyes brightened when she spotted Harry, and the adults turned to see what she was looking at.

"There you are." Petunia's voice was sickly sweet. She stood from her spot in the armchair and walked over to Harry, putting an awkward arm around his shoulders. She guided him into the room. "We were just talking about you, Harry dear. It seems as if you left your things when you went to see your friends. In London." Harry swallowed at her dangerously light tone.

"Erm—thanks." He waved feebly at Hermione. "You didn't have to drive all the way down here just for that."

"It was our pleasure." Mr. Granger smiled. "I wanted to meet Hermione's new friend anyway, not to mention she was rather anxious to see you." Hermione did not look pleased at this revelation, but her father didn't notice. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Harry. It seems you've charmed both the Granger women pretty thoroughly."

Harry coughed uncomfortably. Hermione looked as if she wanted nothing more than to sink into the couch and disappear.

"How very kind of you," Petunia simpered. "But I'm sure you're exaggerating just a tad. My nephew is such a… quiet boy. We worry about him so. His teachers have warned us in the past that he may even be a bit slow for his age." Harry grimaced, knowing this was just the beginning of his punishment.

Hermione finally spoke up. "Harry, would you like to come to dinner with us?" The other three blinked at her in surprise at the request that had seemingly come from nowhere. "It's my reward for getting good grades this term." She raised her chin slightly under the pressure of their gazes. "And I'm allowed to bring a friend, right Daddy?" she asked softly, turning to Mr. Granger.

"What an excellent idea!" Mr. Granger grinned, putting an arm around his daughter. "That is…" He looked back at Petunia. "—if it's alright with his aunt."

Harry watched Petunia chew her tongue, knowing this was going to be interesting. The last thing she wanted to do was let him do something fun after breaking so many rules. And if she were Mr. Dursley, the answer would have been absolutely not. But Harry knew Petunia also wanted to keep up appearances more than anything.

He looked up at his aunt innocently, watching the two sides war within her. She glanced down at Harry, her gaze like lasers. "Of course! You go have fun with your friend. But make sure you're home by nine. It's a school night, after all."

Smiling weakly, Harry got the message she was sending. He was free until nine. Then, judging by the crazy look in her eye, he would be in trouble.

Big trouble.

"You're bringing your backpack?" Hermione asked as they climbed into the car.

Harry looked down at the pack in his lap. As soon as it was in his hands, he had reached inside to find clean and folded clothes, his bundle of money, and the Aevus Obio at the bottom. He hadn't wanted to leave it at the mercy of his aunt. Not with so much suspicion in her eyes. "Oh. I forgot to put it back in my cupb—er, my room. So you were anxious to see me, eh?" He waggled his eyebrows at her.

Hermione scowled. "Dad exaggerates almost compulsively. Mum is always getting after him for embellishing his stories."

Mr. Granger glanced back from the driver's seat. "Hey! I really did go skydiving at age five. Your mum is just jealous that I went without her!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You didn't even know each other when you were five!" Hermione caught Harry grinning and turned on him. "Did you really come to London without asking your aunt? She was very surprised when we told her why we were there."

"It… it was kind of a spur of the moment thing," Harry lied, glancing out the window for inspiration. "She never would have let me go."

"Why were you in London, anyway? Come to think of it…" Hermione looked at him sideways. "Why were you hiding in those bushes by my house?"

"If you must know, I was… I was doing some research at the library, decided to go for a walk, and got a little turned around." Harry winced inwardly. And he had thought he was getting good at lying.

Hermione, however, brightened at the mention of the library. "Isn't it gorgeous? I'd go every week if my parents let me. They have such a huge young adult section that it took me a month to get through it. I've moved on to the adult section now, of course, although my parents insist they have veto power over any book I bring home. As if I'd borrow one of _those_ books. I've also dipped into the biographies, which are ever so fascinating. By the time you're done, it feels as if you knew the person so well, and it's so sad when they die in the end. I just about cried at the end of Catalina de Erauso's biography. She pretended to be a man to get into the military, you know. She wrote a book about it later. She was such an inspiration to young women everywhere."

As Hermione stopped for breath, she caught the amused look on Harry's face and played with her hair in embarrassment. Feeling apologetic, Harry thought he should say something.

"I had a dream about a library once," he found himself saying. "It was massive. There were all kinds of books in there about dragons and time travel and magic. Some of the books were chained to the shelves because if you tried to open them, they would scream at you. But that was the section no one was allowed in. If you wanted to look at those books, you had to sneak in during the night…" Harry broke off, realizing his voice carried an air of melancholy.

"What an odd dream," said Hermione thoughtfully. "There's no such thing as dragons, time travel, or magic, of course, but it seems like a nice enough place. What would a person do with a screaming book?"

"Try stroking its spine, maybe," Harry said with a straight face. Hermione shot him a strange look.

They spent dinner at a small sit down restaurant. It wasn't particularly nice—at least from what Harry could see, since he had never actually been to a nice restaurant—but the atmosphere was cheerful, their waitress was funny, and the food was fantastic. He ate his steak and kidney pie with relish.

Harry also learned that Mr. Granger brought out a side of Hermione that Harry didn't see until their third year, last time. After her father blew through his straw, sending the wrapper colliding into her forehead, Hermione calmly and carefully slide the wrapper onto her own straw under the table. Then she waited until he started to speak and shot the wrapper straight into his open mouth. Harry couldn't remember the last time he laughed so hard.

Mr. Granger told the two stories about little kids he had to work with, which was a bit difficult now that they were all in a rather silly mood. "I had to practically sell my soul to the ginger child just to get her to open her mouth. I suppose that's only a step up from getting my fingers bitten."

"Did you know that we can bite off fingers just as easily as biting through a carrot? The only difference is that part in our brain that tells us, 'No, that's your finger. Don't bite it,'" Hermione said matter-of-factly. Harry and Mr. Granger exchanged disturbed looks.

Mr. Granger looked down at his hands worriedly. "Maybe I should get some insurance. A couple thousand for each finger, do you think?" Harry and Hermione grinned.

When their waitress, a blonde young woman named Rose, came round after dinner, she held a small chocolate bunt cake with ice cream and bananas on top. "This was made by mistake and I was wondering if you kids wanted to eat it. It would be a shame to throw it out."

Mr. Granger hesitated, as a good dentist should, but gave in after seeing the looks on their faces. "Well I suppose we have to, now that you went through the trouble of bringing it out for us." He winked.

Rose grinned and pulled three spoons from her apron. "Enjoy!"

While Mr. Granger stared at his spoon, wondering out loud if he was one of the 'kids' she was talking to, Hermione and Harry dug in. "Hey, leave some bananas for me, will you?" Mr. Granger said in something akin to a very grown up whine. "Bananas are good!"

The outing went by much too quickly. Harry tried to pay for his meal, but Mr. Granger waved him off with a hand. "Your company was recompense enough, thank you."

The next thing he knew, he was back in the car, his spirits falling with every mile. The other two must have sensed his mood, because their happy chatter soon petered into silence.

They pulled into the Dursleys' driveway and Harry gave a resigned sigh. "Thanks for dinner, Mr. Granger." He pretended to be busy with his backpack, dawdling.

"It was our pleasure, Harry," Mr. Granger said, his kind brown eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. "We were happy to have you."

"Don't forget to write, okay?" Hermione watched him uncertainly.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Harry sent her a reassuring smile. Then he climbed out of the car with his backpack in hand and headed, slowly, to his doom.


	9. Chapter 9

_Hey, all! Long time, no see!  
Things have been a little... different lately in the life of Anna Graham. And this fic is one of those things that will be left undone. Sorry! However, I do have a few chapters that have been sitting in my file, not doing any good. So I'll post those real quick so you can at least have something to read when you're all caught up with your TV series, favorite websites, and homework that won't be due til next week.  
That said, it's been a ball! A huge thanks to all those who reviewed and made my day, as well as those who didn't yet still silently enjoyed. Knowing you all, Harry will continue to have crazy adventures for years on end, so I really don't have many qualms about leaving. Treat him well!_

... what am I saying? We all know that it's only entertaining if you abuse your characters completely. But at least give him a semi-happy ending!

_So enjoy. This is a fanfiction, and I have no claims to the characters. No profit was gained, except a wee bit of fun. Can you blame me? It's a world to be envied. _

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Harry was glad he had eaten well that night. After yelling until his face turned purple, Vernon locked him in his cupboard for weeks, allowing only two trips to the bathroom per day and a slice of bread and cheese for every meal. While it was frustrating to be stuck in that tiny room for hours upon end, it wasn't the worst Harry had gone through. No, what he was really worried about was Hermione.

He slid off his mattress sideways until his head hit the floor, feet dangling up the wall. Harry knew that Hermione would be hurt that he hadn't written yet, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't even check the post to see if she had taken the initiative to write him first.

Plus, with the amount of school he was missing because of 'illness,' Harry knew he would have loads of make-up work to do. It wouldn't be difficult, of course, but he still was not looking forward to sitting inside during recess with a pile of worksheets, trying to decide which problems to get wrong as the teacher watched him out of the corner of her eye.

Harry was finally allowed out of his cupboard once summer break had started, strangely reminiscent of the fiasco at the zoo last time. Of course, this was a year too soon. Perhaps this meant he was putting in the time early so that he wouldn't have to do the same after Dudley's birthday outing next year? On his way out, Harry knocked on the wood ceiling for good luck.

He wrote his first letter to Hermione at the little run down shop, after buying some parchment and other supplies. Afterward, he leaned back against the store's peeling paint and reread what he had written, sucking on the end of a ballpoint pen.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I suppose I'd better start with an apology. My aunt and uncle weren't pleased with my surprise trip to London and part of my punishment was that I wasn't allowed to write to you. Before you release every one of your doubts on a piece of paper, let me also add that we don't exactly get along in the first place. You wouldn't believe my chore list. _

_How's your summer? Are you missing school yet? Mine has been pretty boring. I spent most of it inside so far, as another part of my punishment. With that in mind, know that I'm convinced boredom is a form of insanity. My evidence? Throughout these last couple weeks, I've read the dictionary, unmade my bed just to make it again, and taken extra time to brush my teeth just to have something to do. _

_Hope to hear back from you soon. _

_Best,_

_Harry_

After scribbling the addresses onto the envelope—he had finally just memorized Hermione's—he licked the stamp, stuck it in place, and shoved the letter into his pack. He would have to sneak it into the post box that night.

Every morning afterward, Harry checked the post before going to school. And every morning, he would take out a pile of letters, sort through them all, and stick them straight back in the post box morosely.

Finally, nearly a week later, Harry caught sight of Hermione's neat handwriting among the bills. Grinning, he stuffed the rest back in the box and hurried to school as quickly as his little legs would take him. After missing so much school, he had been forced to come every morning for summer classes. Since he had been leaving the Dursleys' early lately, he had plenty of time to find a corner in which he could hunker down and tear into Hermione's letter. And there he read,

_Dear Harry,_

_After much consideration, I've decided to forgive you. After all, if it weren't for your sudden trip to London, we wouldn't have met, would we? But I'm sure you're exaggerating. Your aunt didn't seem that bad. Besides, we have rules for a reason, don't we? Otherwise, there would be chaos!_

Here, Harry had to close his eyes and calm his breathing. She didn't know anything about his situation. How could she? Harry had forgotten how trusting Hermione could be of adults. It had taken her ages to suspect Snape in their first year, after all. She had been right the first time, of course, but that didn't stop Snape from being a git.

He also realized just how much he missed Ron. Rather than defending them, Ron would have insulted the Dursleys and insisted he come visit the next chance he got. Not only would that have made Harry feel better, but it would have made him feel like at least someone was on his side.

Perhaps that was why he needed both of them. He had Ron to always be on his side and Hermione to knock sense into him when he needed it.

Once he had settled this in his mind, Harry continued reading.

_If boredom is a form of insanity as you expressed, I must be just as crazy as you on a normal basis. I finished reading the dictionary at the end of last summer, and actually rather enjoyed it. Words are beautiful! And as my parents would say, I'm sure your teeth won't be any worse off!_

_I've mostly been reading since summer began. I finished Jane Eyre most recently, which was a fantastic read. Have you ever read any of Charlotte Bronte's work? _

_Mum and I are going to make lemon bars tonight. I'm afraid I'm a bit rubbish at cooking, but practice makes perfect, right? _

_You'd better not wait so long to write this time._

_Love from_

_Hermione_

Harry snickered. Fifteen-year-old Hermione had known better than to ask if he'd read anything she had. Eleven-year-old Hermione would be learning that quite soon.

A shadow fell over the letter propped up on Harry's knees. He looked up to see Dudley and four knuckle-cracking goons behind him. While Harry was only (officially) ten years old, the four boys flanking his cousin looked to be at least four years older than them both.

"Hey, Potter," said Dudley arrogantly, smirking. "I've been looking for you. Wanted to introduce you to these guys."

"This is the kid?" A boy wearing a beanie stepped forward for a better look. He had a flat nose, messy brown hair that poked out from beneath his cap, and well-toned arms that were obvious in his sleeveless jersey.

"This is him." Dudley's eyes glittered with revenge. "He's a right tosser, this one."

The boy with the beanie leaned over, sticking his face in Harry's. His breath smelled of beef jerky and cigarettes. He prodded Harry hard in the arm. He stood up and looked back. "He doesn't look like he could lift my little sister's tea set, let alone run off with my sports bag. The one with _weights_ in it?" The other boys murmured in agreement. "What do you think you're playing at?"

At the incensed looks on their faces, Dudley backed up toward Harry, who now stood with his back against the brick wall. "I swear he—he's stronger than he looks. And fast, too!" He elbowed Harry in the side. "Show em, Potter."

Harry rubbed his new bruise, scowling. "I haven't stolen anything!" He tried edging away along the wall, but a boy with a face like a bulldog grabbed his arm and threw him to the ground. When Harry clambered to his feet, he fingered a scrape along his forearm where he landed. His hand came away smeared with blood.

Practically whimpering, Dudley hid behind Harry. As the older boys inched forward, sneers pulling at their mouths, Harry had never wished more fervently for his wand.

"Dudley?"

A grunt came in answer.

"You berk, I think they broke my arm."

"I think they broke my face," Dudley moaned thickly in reply.

Grimacing and favoring his left side, Harry slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position and scooted so he could lean against the school building. There, he tilted his head back and let out a groan. Leave it to Dudley to get them both beat up. Harry had fought back the best he could, of course. Even Dudley had thrown a few solid punches, but they were soon overwhelmed by the older boys' attack.

Dudley shortly followed Harry's lead, sweat dripping down his fat face as his back finally pressed against the brick wall. He pinched the bridge of his nose with clumsy fingers, blood still streaming out his nostrils. Harry wordlessly handed him one of Uncle Vernon's old socks. It had somehow found its way into his bag, which was now emptied across the path.

"What're we gunna do?" Dudley pressed the sock to his face, dabbing carefully.

Harry hissed in a breath as he half-heartedly began scooping papers back into his pack. He definitely didn't want to go to school. However, the last place he wanted to go was the Dursleys' house. Petunia would just blame Harry, and he doubted Dudley would have a problem with that.

"Mrs. Figg's." Harry pulled himself onto his feet using the wall, biting his tongue to hold in what he was sure would have come out as a whimper. If he hadn't broken any ribs, he had definitely bruised a couple. "C'mon." Grasping his bag with trembling fingers, he shuffled toward the street.

"W-wait for me!" Dudley called out hesitantly. Harry was glad for the excuse to stop moving. He turned to see that his fat cousin had somehow hauled himself to his feet. He took a couple steps, then leaned on one of Harry's shoulders.

"Aagh!" Harry teetered under the weight that would have knocked out his breath on the best of days.

"Stop moving," Dudley said irritably.

"Stop crushing my shoulder into my lungs," Harry gasped.

Dudley shoved Harry feebly before continuing to limp forward, still clutching the bloody sock to his face. "Wimp."

"Idiot." Harry stumbled on beside him.

"Freak."

The two continued unenthusiastically calling each other names until they ran out of breath.

Harry wasn't sure what shocked Mrs. Figg more—seeing Harry bloody and bruised, or finding a just as bloody and bruised Dudley on her doorstep beside him. Still, he admired her ability to take things in stride. She ushered both the boys in, settling them down on the kitchen chairs before going on a frantic search for a first aid kit.

He slowly related what had happened, as honestly as he could. "It was partly my fault," he concluded, wincing as Mrs. Figg prodded at his now purple, swollen arm. Dudley glanced over at him, but said nothing.

"Well," Mrs. Figg finally sighed, setting aside the significantly lighter kit and sitting back in her chair. She dabbed some sanitizer onto her hands. "You will definitely need to get that arm checked by a proper doctor, Harry. Your nose as well, Dudley. We can't have them growing crooked, eh?" Dudley, looking horrified at the thought, nodded.

The boys limped to the door. "Harry," Mrs. Figg called. Harry turned, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs. The older woman stood there in her maroon slippers and messy bun, looking at him with the strangest glint in her eye. "Stay out of trouble, will you?"

Harry's mouth twitched into a small smile. "I'll do my best."

Once they made it to the front lawn, Harry paused. If they went back to the Dursleys now, perhaps Petunia would be less likely to go mental. Dudley was much less bloody than before. He glanced over at his cousin, whose mind seemed to be elsewhere.

"Why didn't you tell her it was all my fault?" Dudley looked ridiculous, his nose purple and twice its normal size. Still, the look on his face was one Harry had never seen before—concentrated curiosity. "She would have believed you. I think she likes you better." He said it almost accusingly.

"Because it wasn't." Harry said shortly, not in the mood to explain himself. He turned to continue their painful escapade, but Dudley stayed put.

"But she didn't know that."

Harry whirled around, ignoring the pain that made his head swirl. He gave his cousin a searching look. "What does it matter to you? You got what you wanted. I learned my lesson. Congratulations," he said bitterly.

"Because!" Dudley balled his hands into fists, his face screwed up. "Because… because you lied. It wasn't your fault we got beat. I'm the one who told those guys you stole their bag."

Harry blinked. "Well… I would have been lying if I said it was _completely_ your fault. I mean, you were reacting to something I did, right?"

Dudley thought about that for a moment, staring hard at the ground. "Well… you were just reacting to something I did!" His face cleared and he looked up at Harry reproachfully. "So it _was_ a lie!"

"Wait, wait, wait." Harry held up his hands, struggling to follow Dudley's convoluted logic. "I think I must have hit my head pretty hard back there. It sounds like you're admitting to doing something wrong."

"Of course I'm not. Don't be an idiot." Dudley spat. With that, he began walking down the street.

Looking up at the sky long-sufferingly, Harry followed. _That was weird._


	10. Chapter 10

_Hello. This is a fanfiction. I don't own the characters. I like cheese. _

* * *

For some reason—between Petunia's shrieks of "My poor baby!" and Dudley's fake tears, Harry missed what exactly that reason was—Harry managed to avoid being blamed for Dudley's injury. He even got a strawberry sucker from the doctor's office and sucked on it happily as they put his arm in a red cast. It was one of those moments he was very glad his old friends couldn't see. _Even adults have to enjoy the little things as they come,_ Harry rationalized, swinging his skinny legs.

The summer went by smoothly—Harry was out of the house even more than usual since he had summer school, and the classes weren't half bad. Dudley and his gang had somehow avoided them, so he was allowed to 'learn' in peace. He even had a short conversation with a young boy in the back. They had simply commented on how boring History was, but it was more than Harry had gotten out of a classmate in years.

Fall and winter passed by rather sluggishly, keeping most inside their houses to escape the soggy, frigid air. The last thing Harry wanted was to spend more time with the Dursleys, so he spent most of his waking hours either at school or at Mrs. Figg's.

He and Dudley had slipped into a strange, mutual teasing routine with an odd lack of physical pain. Harry wasn't about to complain, though. While avoiding trouble at school, writing to Hermione, and teasing Mrs. Figg's cats with a bit of yarn between chores, Harry hardly noticed the next summer coming up fast until Dudley decided he wanted to go to the zoo for his birthday.

Remembering the fiasco from last time, Harry wanted to avoid that zoo like Snape avoided shampoo. He couldn't afford to spend any more time in the cupboard—not with the arrival of his letter so soon in his future. The only issue was convincing the Dursleys.

"Mrs. Figg can't take him with that broken leg," Petunia said critically, as if it was Mrs. Figg's fault. They all sat around the kitchen table, the Dursleys taking turns glaring at Harry for existing.

"I could go with you," Harry said cheerfully. "I won't blow anything up, I swear! I'd love to see the snakes, the hyenas…"

Vernon looked at him as if he had just dribbled on his shirt. "You will do no such thing, boy!" Petunia nodded firmly, the muscles in her neck betraying her anxiety, as if she was sure such animals would give him the wrong sort of ideas. Dudley smirked.

"Where else would I go? The Grangers'?" Harry continued eating casually, as if it didn't matter one way or another to him. He had to be very careful in bringing them up, as Petunia continually pursed her lips whenever the name was mentioned. Vernon had never met them, but always referred to them as Harry's "barmy little charity group."

"Don't let him go to the zoo with us, please Mum!" Dudley whined when he saw his mother hesitating. "I don't _want_ him to come! Make him go somewhere else!"

Petunia reluctantly gave in—heaven forbid she make her nephew happy—and Harry dialed the Grangers, trying to ignore the way three gazes burned into the back of his head from the table.

Mr. Granger picked up. "Hello, Granger residence."

"Erm hello." Harry hadn't spoken on the phone for a while. Every now and then the Dursleys would insist he pick up the phone when they knew it was a telemarketer just to get it to stop ringing. He never really knew where to look and usually ended up examining the tiny lumps of paint on the wall.

"Harry?" Thankfully, Mr. Granger sounded pleased. "What a surprise! (_Hold on a minute, darling_.) How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. Er… I was wondering. See, Dudley is going to the zoo tomorrow for his birthday and I'm not allow—I'm not going. So maybe… if it's alright with you, of course… could I—"

Hermione's voice popped onto a different line. "Dad! Harry's _my_ friend. Phone hog. Hi, Harry! Did you get my last letter? I _do_ hope that you've been doing something other than—"

"Is that Harry?" Mrs. Granger's voice interrupted. "I thought I'd join the party too! How are you, dear?"

"Uh, fine Mrs. Granger." Harry prodded at a divot in the wall, feeling quite overwhelmed at the thought of talking to three people at the same time. He ran a hand through his hair. "So I was thinking maybe I could ride the bus down and visit again, if you… all… don't mind."

They all answered immediately, at the same time.

"Of course, we'd love to have you!" Mr. Granger said jauntily.

"By no means are you riding the bus all the way here! We'll come pick you up!" Mrs. Granger tutted.

"Don't be silly, Harry. We'll come get you, of course. Oh, this will be spectacular! We can watch movies and go to the park…" The other line thumped, and Harry was sure Hermione was jumping up and down. "You'll stay for the weekend then, right?" Her parents murmured their agreement.

A smile split across Harry's face.

And that was how Harry found himself waiting on the porch for the Grangers' silver car, backpack in hand. He had basically packed everything he remotely cared about in the world into the bag, which tallied up to his three favorite shirts—the ones that actually fit him-, a pair of jeans and the obligatory belt, some balled-up socks that may or may not have been clean, a wad of money that he had given up keeping count of, and the Aevus Obio, settled deeply in the bottom.

After sitting there for around twenty minutes, Harry stood up and paced. Then he sat on the grass. Then he lay on the grass, hands behind his head. An hour… two hours passed, and as they did, Harry's stomach twisted tighter and tighter.

By the time the Dursleys got home, Harry sat at the kitchen table, head down on his arms as he stared at the phone. His heart thumped to the beat as his mind spun around the words, _Some-thing-went-wrong. Some-thing-went-wrong. Some-thing-went-wrong._ The tiny light on the phone glowed innocently.

He dimly heard Vernon walk into the kitchen and sneer, "Looks like they forgot you, boy. Pity. I was looking forward to a weekend without you under—"

The phone rang. Knocking his chair over in his haste, Harry ripped the handset from its mount. "Hello?" he said breathlessly.

"Harry?" Mr. Granger's voice was heavy. Harry's knees felt weak. "I'm sorry it took so long… there's been—there's been an accident."

"What?" Harry whispered, his stomach dropping. "Hermione. _Is she okay?"_

"She's a bit banged up, but she'll be fine. They'll let her out tomorrow. " Mr. Granger spoke dully, mechanically, as if speaking to a stranger.

Harry felt every ounce of tension run out of his body. He leaned on the counter, feeling shaky. "Is… is Mrs. Granger alright?"

Silence followed. Harry's breath hitched. "I'm afraid… I'm… she's still unconscious. The doctors are doing everything they can." At this point, Mr. Granger sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. "We're at St. Pancras Hospital for now. If things don't change, they'll have to move her."

As Mr. Granger spoke, Harry clutched at the counter top with white fingers. Everything he heard echoed oddly in his head. Mrs. Granger, unconscious? Hermione, injured? He sucked in air, realizing suddenly that he had forgotten to breathe.

This hadn't happened the last time. It couldn't have—they never would have tried to make that drive if he hadn't found Hermione, become friends with her. He looked down at the phone in his hand, which was still making noise, a voice speaking nonsense on the other side. Dimly, he pushed the End button and hung it back on the wall.

Then, as if in a dream, he went outside and walked. He had no idea where he was going, but his mind needed somewhere to go and couldn't find one, so he moved his feet instead. Tears pricked at his eyes and emotion tore at his insides, pushing upward as if he was about to be sick.

Suddenly, a warm hand wrapped around his. He looked up to see a familiar face, a familiar deep blue shirt. What was her name again?

"Jenny." Harry's voice was hoarse. He looked down at their hands. "What—" he cleared his throat—"what are you doing here?"

"My job," Jenny said kindly. "C'mere." She led him to the curb where they both sat down, Harry much less gracefully than his companion.

He looked back at the girl, confused. He had seen neither hide nor hair of her since that time at the little shop—not for lack of trying. He had looked every time he was there, but had long since given up, deciding she must have lived far away.

"First, I suppose I should explain." Jenny gave him a reassuring smile then looked down at the gutter, clearly thinking hard. "How to do this…" she muttered. Harry looked down at their intertwined hands again. He had never held hands before, but decided it was rather nice. The physical contact with another person seemed to be exactly what he needed, sending a beam of warmth into his otherwise icy chest.

"I know about the Aevus Obio," she said abruptly. Harry's eyes snapped back to her face, widening in surprise.

"What? _How_?" Harry blinked, trying to get his mind on track.

"When I told you I was your companion, I wasn't joking." Jenny's mouth quirked up in an attempted smile. "We companions are sent to help the user of the Aevus Obio. I was a bit distracted last time, so I'm sorry I wasn't very clear."

"Wait. 'We'?" Harry tore his hand from hers to probe his temples.

"Yes. The companions. The last consecutive people to use the Aevus Obio to travel back in time. You didn't think you could use it for free, did you?" Jenny's face turned bitter for a moment, then snapped back to her normal cheer. "My companion was an adorably awkward guy named Rory. He didn't know what he was doing half the time, but at least he was someone to talk to. You know how difficult it is to have a decent conversation when everyone thinks you're a nose-picking six year old."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, which he imagined was sticking up in all directions by now, struggling to wrap his sluggish, shame-ridden mind around this new idea. "So… you used the Aevus Obio before me."

"Yep!" She popped her lips on the 'p.'

"And… I'll have to be someone's companion someday? Someone else who uses it after me?"

"Pretty much." Jenny nodded.

"When does that happen?"

Her face fell for a brief second. "Well, you sort of have to… die… first." Then her eyes lightened. "But it's like a second chance at life, right? Hey, lucky you!" She batted him playfully on the arm.

"So… you've died, then?" Harry couldn't stop the words before they bubbled straight out his mouth. He looked down at his feet. "Sorry…er… you don't have to talk about it if you don't want…"

Jenny shrugged uncomfortably. "S'alright. I've had plenty of time to come to terms with it. But that's not what we're supposed to be talking about, is it?"

Harry's brow furrowed. "What are we supposed to be talking about, then?"

"You, of course. You look like your puppy just got run over by a truck." She winced at Harry's expression. "Your… puppy didn't really get run over by a truck, did it?" she said hesitantly.

He let out a bitter laugh. "Don't own a dog. No, it's just… they got in a car accident. They weren't supposed to… they were coming to pick me up. I shouldn't have jumped the gun. They shouldn't even know me yet. And now…" Harry's voice broke. He scrubbed at his face furiously.

"It's not your fault, Harry," came her gentle voice.

Harry flung up a hand, as if to shove the words away. "Of course it is!" He spat, digging fingers into his scalp, pulling at handfuls of hair. "If Hermione's mom—if she dies… I dunno if I can ever forgive myself." Hot tears filled his eyes. He blinked, watching them fall to the gutter, speckling the cement with moisture.

"Listen, Harry. _I understand what you're going through._ I went through the same—"

"No you don't!" Harry erupted, launching himself off the curb, away from the strange girl with shocked eyes. "I don't even know you! Why… why am I even talking to you?" He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, backing away. Throwing out his arms, he yelled. "Get out of here! I don't want to talk to you anymore." He turned, striding away.

"Harry…"

"I said leave!" he roared. He spun to look at her, only to be greeted by a silent street. Breathing hard, he scanned all the yards and sidewalks, but she seemed to have disappeared into thin air without even the pop of apparation.

He walked around aimlessly before finally hurrying back to the Dursleys', shocking Vernon as he burst into the sitting room with wild eyes. "Drive me to St. Pancras Hospital." The lights flickered. His uncle's expression changed from anger to fear at the sight of his nephew, hair standing up as if he had just stuck a fork in the toaster, eyes red and glaring.

"_Now_."


	11. Chapter 11

_If I owned these characters, do you really think I'd be wiping noses and rocking babies to sleep at 2:00 AM for a living?  
...actually, I still would. Because kids rock. Oh well. Either way, it's a fanfiction and I'm broke. _

* * *

As Vernon sped away from the hospital behind him, glaring, Harry knew he was going to regret this later. He had been vaguely surprised his uncle even complied. Now, however, his mind was already inside the hospital. His feet hurried to catch up as he swung his backpack over a shoulder.

Heart beating in his ears, Harry swept through the automatic doors to the front desk. "Granger, please. Hermione Granger," he said quickly. The lady at the desk looked up with surprise. She was a dark-haired Chinese woman in a neat pantsuit with a flowery brooch pinned to the lapel. She typed the name into her computer with two well-manicured fingers. Harry leaned on the desk, as if that pressure would make her type faster.

"Granger…" she muttered. "Ah! Room 216. That'll be upstairs, dear." She gestured to her right, where there stood three people waiting in front of a set of elevator doors.

"Thanks!" He pushed off the front desk and bypassed the elevator completely, choosing instead to sprint up the staircase beside it, much too anxious to stand still.

Breathing hard, he scanned the doors of the cream-colored hallway. "216…216…216…" He passed multiple people, some holding balloons or flowers, others rubbing their hands as if they had just put on lotion. They all watched him speed past curiously.

Finally, there it was, room 216. He stood outside the door, struggling to catch his breath and pat down his crazy mop of hair. He lifted a trembling hand to grasp the knob only to lower it again. What if she didn't want to see him? What if she blamed him for the accident? His stomach shifted uncomfortably.

Harry clenched his fists. He had to see for himself that she was alright. After that, he would leave if she wanted him to. With a tight jaw and a determined glint in his eye, Harry opened the door.

The room smelled sickly sweet, as if someone had recently sprayed an air freshener. Harry wrinkled his nose, reminded of the time he accidentally tracked dog poo into the house. Petunia had practically bathed him in 'Rain Garden' Lysol. He wasn't sure his lungs would ever be the same again.

With a tentative step forward, a hospital bed came into view. There lay Hermione, propped up on a pillow and reading. Her arm was connected to an IV by a clear tube, but was free of any other machinery, to Harry's relief. Her right temple was colored with a deep bruise, as well as a small spot on her forehead. She looked up, sensing another person in the room.

"Harry!" Her face lit up. She closed the book, laying it in her blanketed lap. Taking this as a good sign, Harry walked up to her bed, hands in his pockets. "How did you get here?" she asked curiously.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "My uncle." He shrugged. "How are you feeling?" he asked with a tight voice.

She gave him a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Bit bruised, but I'll live."

"Listen…" Harry swallowed hard. "I heard about your mum…" The tiny smile melted off Hermione's face. She looked down at the book in her lap, flipping the edges of its pages with a thumb. Harry's chest was bursting with all the words he wanted to say, but his throat didn't seem to work properly. "I'm sorry," he managed to squeeze out hoarsely, looking at his feet.

Hermione sniffed. "For what?" she said in a watery voice, keeping her gaze down.

"I—I should have just gone to the stupid zoo," Harry said bitterly. He prodded at a box of gloves on a nearby shelf. "If you hadn't been coming down to pick me up, you wouldn't have—you know. Gotten hurt." He ran a hand through his hair miserably. "Maybe it would have been better if I hadn't gone to London in the first place."

Hermione burst into tears. Harry looked up, shock and guilt written on his face. "How can you say that?" she drew her legs up to her chest, hiding her face in the blanket covering her knees.

Harry hurried to her side, and bounced on the balls of his feet, panicking. "What? I was apologizing! I didn't mean—! Oh don't—" He glanced around the room, looking for ideas. Seeing a box of tissues on the bedside table, he snatched it and thrust it out to the crying girl.

At his silence, Hermione peeked up with swollen eyes. She sniffed and took the proffered box, dabbing at her eyes. "How—" She sniffed again. "—how can you even think that I would be better off without you? You're my best friend and my mom is in the hospital and I hurt all over and… and… I hate this book!" She threw it off the bed where it clattered to the floor, then hid her face in her knees once more.

Harry looked up at the ceiling in frustration. Even at twenty years old he _still_ had no idea how to deal with crying women! Scanning his memory, his mind finally landed on that moment with Jenny on the curb. Physical contact had helped much more than any words had. Perhaps… perhaps that would work here.

Uncertainly, Harry stepped closer. He leaned against the bed—almost sitting on it—and put an arm around Hermione's shoulders. Immediately she leaned into him, throwing her arms around his very surprised neck and burying her face in his shirt.

"Er—hey." He patted her back softly. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just worried, okay?" Hermione nodded into his shoulder. They sat like that for a few moments. Harry's side was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, but he dare not shift his weight farther onto the bed for fear of disturbing Hermione.

A light knock at the door drew both their gazes. It was Mr. Granger, looking very tired and very worn, yet very happy. "Your mum is awake," he said gently. "The doctors say she's stable. Her odds are much better now." The look of hope on the man's face was infectious.

Relief flooded through Harry from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He was so relieved, in fact, that when Hermione let go of him to hug her father, Harry toppled to the ground.

"Harry!" Hermione couldn't help but giggle, wiping tears off her face. "Are you okay?"

Harry rubbed his head where it had hit the nightstand. "Just hurt my pride." He grinned as he climbed to his feet.

"Can I see her?" Hermione turned back to her father, beaming.

Mr. Granger shook his head. "The doctors say she needs to rest for now. But _definitely_ tomorrow." He poked his daughter's nose.

As they chatted about what they'd do to celebrate when Mrs. Granger could leave the hospital, Harry dimly remembered a girl he had left on the street. Perhaps there was someone else he owed an apology as well.

Later, Mr. Granger managed to sneak a few hamburgers into Hermione's room. She gave him a good scolding for breaking the rules, but that didn't stop her from digging her teeth into hers with relish.

"The doctors say they are amazed how little damage occurred to both us and the car," Mr. Granger said around a mouthful. He swallowed, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Apparently, for that scale of a crash, our injuries should have been much, much more severe."

Harry ate his burger silently, guilt rising in his stomach once more. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the end of the bed.

"In fact," Mr. Granger added, leaning forward. "They said it was as if _some outside force was protecting us._" He looked meaningful at Hermione, whose eyes widened. Harry looked between them curiously, but suddenly they were both very interested in their food.

Harry picked up a pickle that had fallen into his lap and popped it into his mouth. He hadn't known Hermione to be particularly religious… Then a thought occurred to him so suddenly, his jaw dropped. Hermione had turned eleven last September. They would go to Hogwarts this fall. _Which means…_ He glanced up at his friend, who was looking quite pleased. _…she already knows she's a witch._

Strangely enough, he felt a bit put out that she hadn't told him. Granted, she wasn't supposed to tell anyone. But Harry was her best friend! He stuffed the last bit of burger in his mouth sulkily. He knew it was silly of him to get upset over a secret he already knew, but he couldn't help it.

When Mr. Granger excused himself to use the bathroom, as if she read his mind, Hermione said in a strange voice, "Harry… I've been meaning to speak to you about something." She smoothed out a bit of the comforter on her bed, suddenly self-conscious. "I didn't want to write about it, so I was waiting til you came over and well…" Harry nodded encouragingly as she glanced up, his heart warming. Here it was!

"I was reading the other day—stop that, Harry!" She scowled after he had pulled the most cheesy look of surprise he could.

"Ahem, sorry. Please continue," he said, grinning.

"_Anyway_." She gave him a look. "While I was reading, I spotted someone with the same name as you. Your last name is Potter, right? Harry Potter?"

This time, his look of surprise was absolutely genuine, but not for the reason she probably thought. "Er—yeah." He did his best to school his features into curiosity, suddenly dreading what came next. He had wanted her to confide in him, but not like this!

"Harry… did you lose your parents when you were really small?" Hermione asked gently.

Harry nodded, not meeting her eye. "Car crash," he grunted. Her eyes moved upward, staring at his hairline. She reached a hand toward his fringe. He caught her wrist just in time and softly returned it to her lap. "I don't like talking about it," he said desperately, climbing off the bed.

"Harry—wait!" Hermione tried to follow, but was pulled back by the IV.

"Gotta go. Loo." Harry hurried out the door and down the hall, only stopping when he turned a corner and pressed his backpack up against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He buried his head in his hands. _This is so messed up._ With a hand, he swung his backpack round, dug into it, and pulled out the Aevus Obio, turning it slowly between his fingers. As always, as he touched the intricate carvings on the sides, he immediately felt calmer. It had a reassuring weight that he wasn't sure if he could ever do without.

He hadn't realized it would be this difficult, lying to people. He remembered how frustrating it was at Hogwarts, always getting half-truths and excuses when he asked questions. He understood that Dumbledore wanted to protect him, but that didn't stop him from being driven mad from lack of ability to help. The lack of control over his own life. He didn't want to be like that toward the people he loved most—he didn't want to wear this heavy secret on his back for the rest of his life.

Harry's hand began to hurt. He looked down to realize he was clutching the tiny box, the corners digging into his palm. He loosened his grip, flexing his hand.

"Harry?" a girl's voice made him jump, stuffing the little blue box under his leg before looking up.

It was Jenny. She stood in the hallway with a hesitant look on her face. "Oh. Hullo," Harry said uncomfortably, climbing to his feet. "How do you do that?"

She inched forward timidly. "Do what?"

"Appear and disappear randomly."

Shrugging, she pulled at the end of her blue shirt. "It's… hard to explain." At Harry's expression, she continued quickly. "It's a bit like… you know how in a dream, you don't actually move places? You think about a place, and suddenly you're there? It's a bit like that. Only, it's largely connected to your emotions."

"_My_ emotions?" Harry blinked.

Jenny nodded. "Time travel is a draining thing. The companion's purpose is to provide support to the user, making sure they don't… you know, go mad or anything."

"Comforting," Harry said sarcastically.

She let out a frustrated sigh. "Look. I'm here to help you, whether you like it or not. Can't you just accept the fact that I'm not going anywhere?" She paced down the hall a couple steps. "It's not like I could, even if I had somewhere else to go…"

Harry bumped the wall with the tip of his shoe. "I'm sorry." He leaned his forehead against the cool paint before looking back up at the girl. "I shouldn't have yelled at you earlier."

Jenny nodded, her face lightening at his apology. "I could have been better, too. I've never been good at making people feel better."

"I think you did pretty well! –before you opened your mouth," Harry added. Jenny scowled at him playfully, stepping closer just to sock him hard in the shoulder. "Ow!" He said in surprise, rubbing his arm.

"One thing you'll have to learn about me is that I don't pull my punches." Jenny sauntered back, grinning.

"I'll have to remember that one." Harry grinned back.

"Harry?" He turned just in time to see Mr. Granger appear around the corner. "Who were you talking to?"

"Jenny, my—" Harry gestured back to, turning see an empty hallway. "—invisible friend." He looked back at Mr. Granger, rubbing at his head. "She moves pretty fast." He laughed nervously.

He received an odd look, but luckily, Mr. Granger had something else on his mind. "It's getting late, Harry. What are your plans for tonight?"

Harry shuffled his feet. "I haven't actually gotten that far yet."

"Your uncle?"

"Likely back in Surrey and watching a late night TV show."

Mr. Granger nodded thoughtfully. "I have a cot set up in my wife's room. Would you like to do the same in Hermione's?"

"Er—sure! That's… okay?" He watched Hermione's father carefully, wondering if this was some sort of test.

The man just laughed. "Of course! We were going to let you sleep over anyway, remember? And I'm sure I can trust you with my daughter, right Harry?" Mr. Granger gave Harry such a look of confidence, his chest puffed out.

"Yessir!" Harry said seriously.

Mr. Granger smiled fondly and clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Good lad. Let's track down one of those nurses, shall we?"

Harry followed him down the hall, hoping fervently that Hermione would drop the subject of their last conversation. _Maybe I should take an acting class,_ thought Harry worriedly, knowing how stubborn Hermione could be. _Just in case._


	12. Chapter 12

_Hmm. That's a lot of angst. But I suppose angst can be very therapeutic.  
For me, not Harry.  
I don't own these characters, nor gain money by them. That would be slavery._

* * *

Hermione was much less talkative that evening than Harry expected. They chatted a little from their respective beds, but soon silence fell, both of them too emotionally drained to make the effort. Harry dozed off, cradled in fluffy hospital blankets, listening to the reassuring sound of his best friend's slow breaths.

Then, as if in a dream, Harry was seized from the warm confines of sleep and shaken awake. A light seared and he blinked, rubbing the tears that surfaced in his tired eyes. "Wha-?" He ran his tongue around fuzzy teeth.

A blurry figure moved to Hermione's bed and shook her awake as well. Harry pressed his glasses to his face just before Mr. Granger whispered, "Get up Hermione!" He turned back to look at Harry. His stomach did a somersault at the man's pale, anxious face. "Wake up!"

"What's the matter?" Hermione's voice reflected the same worry. "Is it Mum? What happened?" Her voice broke.

"Something's gone wrong," Mr. Granger struggled to keep his voice level. "She—she's had a heart attack. The doctors don't know what happened. They're doing their best, but—but things don't look good."

A sob erupted from Hermione's mouth before she covered it with both her hands. Crawling out from under her blankets, she wrapped her arms around her father, choking. Harry sat frozen in his cot.

"I th-thought the magic saved us," she sobbed into her dad's nightshirt. Harry could see her hands grasping tightly at the material. "I thought it was going to be al-alright!" Her father said nothing and just stroked her hair, silent tears dripping down his drawn face.

The air in Harry's lungs lost its savor. He let out a coughing breath and sucked in more, but it didn't help the ice making its way to the center of his chest. Clutching the metal bar of the edge of his cot, he stared hard at the floor, not able look at them anymore. His mind wasn't working. It floated, dancing around the knowledge that had already pierced his heart—the thing he knew with such strength in every other part of his shivering body.

_It's my fault._

He let out a guttural cry, clutching sharp fingers at his face, baring his teeth at the pain in his middle. Gasping for air, he pulled at his hair until tears pricked his eyes. Suddenly he was seized with the need to be gone. He couldn't stay there. He couldn't stay in the same room as those people he had hurt so much.

Pushing off his cot, he sprinted to the door and yanked it open, throwing himself into the hall. Then, bent over with the effort, he ran. He ran until he was out of hallway, and then he turned and ran some more. Crashing into a wall, he clawed at it. His legs failed. He curled into a ball and finally let the tears come.

Why couldn't he have had this one moment of fortune? Why couldn't he have been allowed this little spring of happiness in his otherwise overcast life?

A pair of gentle arms wrapped around him, and he clutched at the slight figure, hugging her tightly until his biceps ached and then held her closer. And he cried. He cried for Hermione. He cried for Mrs. Granger. And then, he cried for the loss of the friends he left behind. He cried for the world he had considered home without realizing there was another option. He even cried because he was crying and he felt like a monstrous failure of a Gryffindor. As his shoulders shook, Jenny hummed softly, running her fingers through his hair. Moisture stuck at his hot face. His stomach ached. And then, he let out a long breath, pulling back. He rubbed at his eyes.

"Harry." He looked up at Jenny's firm yet tender voice. "Did you know they would be in a car crash?" He scowled, opening his mouth to argue, but she pressed on. "Did you _know_? Did you ask them to come despite that knowledge? _No_. You did not. Did you cause the accident? Did you make them crash, knowing that they would get hurt? _No_. _You did not._ There is no way you could have known. You're not God. You're not even a seer. You're Harry Potter, a boy who just wanted to spend time with his best friend. You're not all-powerful. It's illogical to think you have to be. You're Harry. Just be Harry."

"Which one?" He said darkly, many of his emotions from before rising once more. His mind echoed, _Liar. Liar. Liar_."

"Be the guy whose best friend might lose her mother soon." Jenny said unfalteringly, her voice cutting through his thoughts. "Hermione needs you. What are you going to do about it?"

Harry sniffed, wiping his nose with the collar of his shirt. He looked up at the girl. He looked down at his hands, still so small. Still so clean. He blinked, his eyelashes drying stickily. Then he was off, running back toward the hospital room. Back toward Hermione.

Harry felt numb, standing behind a thick, plastic window. He watched as the doctors slowly, heavily removed the machinery from around Mrs. Granger. His head buzzed. His feet tingled. The woman lying in the bed wasn't quite Mrs. Granger anymore. Her hair was flat around her head, rather than frizzled and flying about her head having escaped from the messy bun. Her face was grey and collapsed, like a deflated tire, around a suddenly boney skull. And Harry felt nothing, his breath bouncing back at him, fogging up the window.

Reaching over, he clasped Hermione's hand in his own. It was small—smaller than his, even—and trembling. He inched closer so his shoulder pressed against hers. She leaned into him. He could see her brown eyes reflected in the clear plastic, wide and empty.

"I'm sorry," came the low voice of a man in white. Mr. Granger simply nodded, staring blankly ahead.

Harry remembered similar phrases after Sirius died, all of them leaving him emptier with every word. He hadn't wanted them to be sorry. He had wanted Sirius, not hesitant words, not sad faces. And so he stood there, holding Hermione's hand a little tighter, saying nothing.

What could be said, after all?

Harry sat stiffly in the silver car, feeling as if the air had been filled with billions of tiny needles. The only sounds were those of the engine running, other cars shifting around them, and the occasional squeak of skin against the material of the seats.

They pulled into the driveway and, at the sight of their neat, unassuming house, Hermione burst into tears once more. After stopping the car, Mr. Granger walked around, opened her door, and pulled his daughter into his arms. Then, together, they walked toward their home. Feeling like the worst sort of interloper, Harry followed, clutching his backpack in front of him.

During the next few days, Harry helped the best he knew how. He made all the meals, carefully washing every dish when they were done. Hermione would try to smile, telling him what a good cook he was, and he would just shrug. He was used to cooking. Sometimes she joined him, and they stood side by side, stirring pots on the stove or chopping vegetables on the counter. She always seemed to be calmer at these times, so Harry was, of course, happy to let her help.

Weeks passed. The Grangers didn't say anything about Harry going back to the Dursleys, so he didn't either. Slowly, their lives began to come back together. Hermione gave Harry a real smile. Mr. Granger woke up early and made them all bacon and eggs. Harry knew that it would be a while before they would be themselves again, but he was glad that they were making the effort.

One day, just as Harry was wiping his hands on a towel after clearing away dinner, he witnessed something that he hadn't seen for years.

An owl flew through an open window.

He and Hermione, who had been shoveling leftover spaghetti into a container, stared at it in shock. It hopped over to Harry and, straightening up importantly, held out its leg. He took the letter with excited fingers, reading the front.

Mr. H. Potter  
The guest room  
739 Endell Street  
London

He glanced up at Hermione, who was being strangely quiet, and to his shock, her face held a look of bitterness and sorrow. Then, before Harry could speak, she zipped away. Harry heard her feet travel up the stairs and through the hallway, and winced with the slam of her bedroom door. He looked back at the little letter in surprise. That had _not_ been the reaction he had been expecting.

Making his way up to her bedroom, Harry knocked lightly on the door. "Hermione?"

"Don't read it, Harry!" came the teary reply. "Don't you read that letter!"

He clutched the bit of paper he had been looking forward to for six years tightly with both hands. "Why in the world not? It's addressed to me!"

"Because there's no such thing as magic! How could there be?" Hermione yelled, her voice high. "If there was, Mum wouldn't—she would—she wouldn't—" she dissolved into sobs. Harry put a hand against the door, unsure of what to do. Should he force his way inside?

Mr. Granger came hurrying down the hallway and Harry moved out of the way so he could slowly open the door. The man slipped inside, leaving Harry to listen through the crack. He pressed himself up against the frame helplessly.

"Hermione, honey," came the gentlest of voices. Harry heard the squeak of extra weight on a mattress. They all were still for a moment, waiting for Hermione's cries to subside. As she sniffed, her father spoke again. "Do you know what your mother worried about most when we decided to let you go to that school? It wasn't the magic—no," he chuckled. "Your mum believed in the magic. She's believed in magic ever since she walked into the kitchen and saw you float your bottle down from the counter." Hermione let out a wet sort of giggle.

"What your mother worried about most," he said softly, "—was not knowing if you were safe. She'd never been away from you for so long, see." He took a deep breath. "And you know what? I believe in the magic, too. I believe that the magic did help us. It helped her be well enough to know that you were safe, after everything. And that—that meant the _world_ to her."

Hearing two sets of sobs this time, Harry snuck down the stairs to finish putting dinner away. And when they came down together, faces red with tears yet somehow still smiling, he watched them with their arms around each other and decided that this must be what family was.

"So Harry," Hermione said, wiping her eyes. Her cheerfulness was still a bit forced, but there was also genuine happiness shining behind her eyes. "Are you going to read your letter, or am I going to have to read it for you?"

Once her tears dried and it finally hit her what Harry's letter meant—which had, indeed, been finally opened and quickly commandeered by the bushy-haired young girl—Hermione was bouncing all around the house. "Harry!" She grabbed him and bounced up and down. Leaving him feeling rather disheveled, she released him to go through his letter once more.

"Oh Harry this is _wonderful_! I just can't believe that you're going to Hogwarts, too! I'm so so so happy! I had thought for sure I'd be going alone and have the hardest time making new friends, but here you are! Ooh I must tell you everything I've learned! I've got all sorts of books about it! It's amazing the things that are out there that we had no idea even existed! I've been absolutely bursting to tell you, you have no idea!" She squealed again, giving him another tight hug.

Spitting out a mouthful of brown hair, Harry made a choking noise. "Can't…breathe…"

Hermione leaned back to hit him in the arm. "Oh please, it wasn't that hard."

Happy to see his friend back to her normal self—for now—Harry let her lead him upstairs to see her books. "I've read them all twice by now, of course—" she prattled on. Harry nodded, rolling his eyes inwardly. _Of course._

"But… Harry, who is going to take you to get _your_ books?" She put down a brand new Hogwarts a History to look at him curiously.

That was when a knock sounded at the front door. They glanced at each other in surprise. The neighbors had long since finished giving their condolences. The Grangers didn't have any family nearby. The knock came again, this time louder. In fact, it didn't sound so much like a knock as the firing of a cannon.

* * *

_Aaand that's it! Sorry again. Anyone who wants to adopt this can totally just... take it. Do what you will. Just keep it original, okay? There's too much overdone stuff out there... _

_Have a great one! Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!_


End file.
